


tired of looking around rooms wondering who i'm supposed to be

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fluff, One Tree Hill - Freeform, One Tree Hill AU, Teen Romance, basically this is super melodramatic but i needed my brollexa fill, oth au, teen drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:44:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 59,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Bellamy joins his high school soccer team his junior year under slight pressure (re: emotional blackmail) of his coach. It comes with a few things, like a feud with his sort-of half sister slash team captain Lexa, a pregnancy scare and matching tattoo (not in that order) with his teammate slash co-worker at the auto shop and a kind-of on-and-off relationship with his sort-of half sister's slash team captain's ex girlfriend.Or: Bellamy finds himself in the midst of a teen drama, not really sure how soccer got him there. Based slightly on One Tree Hill.





	1. i curse the man that made you what you are today

**Author's Note:**

> look this wouldnt be on brand without a huge ass author's note now would it???
> 
> 1) starting this off saying i dont know S H I T about soccer lmfaooooo i know less about basketball, plus i keep thinking about lexa/abcde's thighs in soccer shorts so really, there was never a choice. i literally made myself a powerpoint presentation on soccer positions and shit, and filled in the gaps from what i know from being a religious euro+world cup viewer. so no taking this seriously pls
> 
> 2) now i upload this fully knowing i might be signing my own death sentence. i know cls have claimed lexa and i IN NO WAY want to undermine the clexa love story and shit but i just want to be upfront that im a bellarke bitch so this will be bellarke and not clexa. lexa will have a DIFFERENT love interest than CLARKE. and if you dont like that it's not for you
> 
> 3) brollexa is real so dont hate me for that either also in this fic lexa will not be slandered / ooc mess thats cracked up to be only her flaws so if thats what ur expecting... leave . Now. Dont come back! im serious why are you still here? Ofc there will be some lil hatefulness between the two so they might say some hurtful things but its not mEANT TO ROAST THEIR ENTIRE CHARACTER!!!!!!!! now all together: in this house we stan brollexa awoman!
> 
> 4) i tagged this but i feel like i should mention what couples happen here, endgame: bellarke, lextavia  
> couples you have to suffer through or get to enjoy depending on what your vibe is to get there: clexa, braven  
> also marcus kane is the marcus he was in s1 ok
> 
> so w that being said dont take this too seriously i already did and then it will be no fun for either of us  
> take it as seriously as the cw takes r*verdale. Another fat mood is the fact lucas scott didnt deserve either brooke or peyton even tho i shipped the both of them brucas was sp*cial to me (lmfaoooo the 100 ruined that word for me) however... it didnt pan out in the show so it cant here either and it felt unnatural but also fit better so i guess i still won
> 
> ps all the overly detailed mentions of how they drive is just me trying to prove everyone thinking i cant drive because im gay is home of phobic . i cant drive because im a woman obviously!
> 
> song in title is Are You Even A One Tree Hill Stan If You Don't Know This Song Also I Changed The Lyrics A Little For Creative Purposes by Gavin DeGraw  
> song in this chapter is baby sister by miss dolly parton bc i'm a country bitch at heart, peace

It's never been a secret that Bellamy has a sister he barely speaks to. His existence synchronous to hers was one of Arkadia's biggest scandals in the small town's history, but it's an old scandal. So people  _knew_ , but most of the time they didn't exactly  _care_.

It was one of those things that would only come up when there was a school event and he had an awkward encounter with her and their father, or if he ever needed a kidney, or something. Lexa would rather remove both organs and go on dialysis the rest of her life than ever give him one of her kidneys, probably, but that's beside the point.

Bellamy has a sister—a half-sister—and it wasn't a secret, it was a fact. A fact he barely ever thought about, because for all intents and purposes, Bellamy has a sister. Her name is Octavia. She was adopted when she was eight and Bellamy was nine, and they'd been thick as thieves ever since. If someone even implied they weren't actually siblings, he'd kick their ass, and then Octavia would do it again, just for good measure.

Blood didn't change anything. It didn't make his father stay in favor of chasing some farfetched soccer dream at college, and it sure as shit didn't keep him from knocking up a different woman a few months after he did the same thing to Bellamy's mom. That's why Marcus Kane isn't his dad, and Lexa Kane isn't his sister. Not for real anyway. They're just people he happens to share DNA with. That's not what matters.

Him and Octavia might not share the same blood—or would ever be able to give each other a kidney for that matter—but they picked each other, and that's what counts.

By the time junior year rolled around, Bellamy had gotten pretty good at not even acknowledging Lexa's existence even though there was only one high school in Arkadia. They rarely took the same classes, didn't exactly run in the same social circles and lived on opposite parts of town. (Not that he would ever expect to run into Lexa at Becca's Diner, anyway. Fries and a burger were probably beneath her.)

He'd gotten so good at it even, he hardly even had to try at this point. School dances? Hard pass. Extra-curricular activities? No thanks. As soon as he saw a person with heavy eye-makeup who even so much resembled Lexa in terms of hair color turn the corner, he just averted his gaze. Problem solved.

Until one day, Coach Miller summoned him into his office. Bellamy only had to look over at Nate out of the corner of his eye to know this was all his doing.

See, ever since Bellamy took his first steps—he's played soccer. First on his own, then with Nate in the Millers' big green backyard, and eventually with the other guys at the community center gym. Of course this wouldn't be a big deal if it wasn't for the fact that Lexa was team captain of the Grounders, Arkadia's one and only soccer team. Bellamy's tried other sports over the years; basketball (not tall enough), baseball (too much anger issues to carry around a bat), football (no active dead wishes). It just didn't feel the same. And he's big on following his gut.

Over the years he's accepted soccer is just a way to pass the time for him, that it was just a form of relaxation, that he could never play in college, or go pro. It was just not in the cards for him.

Ever since they were little, there has always been this kind of unspoken rule between Bellamy Blake and Lexa Kane. Whoever claimed something first, could have it. It's how he got the arcade on seventh street, and Taco Tuesdays. Since her dad was their high school's old soccer hero, Lexa got the Grounders. It was never up for discussion.

Now, Nate—he  _knows_  this. Bellamy and Nate have had multiple conversations over this over the years. Some of them including his dad, Coach Miller.

So it just doesn't explain why, on a random Thursday—the day of the Summoning—his friend nudged him in the ribs during AP History, hard. Bellamy looked up from reading his old copy of the Iliad to find Mr. Pike standing in front of his desk with an unimpressed look on his face. He'd scrambled to pull out his earbuds and sit up straighter in his seat.

"Mr. Blake," his teacher enunciated every syllable irritatingly clear, stern look on his dark face. His arms were crossed over his chest defiantly and Bellamy had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Pike knows he never scores below a B+ on a single test, missing like half of one of his lessons wasn't that big of a deal. "Like I've been telling you for the past two minutes, Coach Miller has requested to see you in his office. Now."

He glanced over at Nate warily—because why the hell would his dad want to speak to  _him_  in the middle of the day?—but his friend just lifted one shoulder indifferently, which told him nothing but also enough at the same time. This was  _definitely_  his doing.

The vague, distant beat of James Bay's Wild Love plays from his earbuds. He glanced over at the rest of the room to find most of his classmates staring at him; one blonde in particular catching his attention, her eyebrows raised like he was annoying her beyond comprehension. Bellamy tore his eyes away and nodded at his teacher to at least acknowledge he heard him before he quickly shoved his book and phone into his bag, starting to make the short walk to the boys' locker room.

Next thing he knew, Coach Miller was sitting across from him, hands intertwined on top of his desk, one of those disappointed looks—the kind that always has Nate looking all sweaty—gracing his face. On top of his desk, on the far right corner for everyone to admire, is a silver trophy reading ' _runner up - State Finals 2017_ ', beside it an essential oil diffuser that explained the overwhelming smell of eucalyptus in his office. (Probably a gift from Nate, because he's always worrying about his dad, telling him to relax more.) A picture of the current team is placed on the wall behind him, right next to Marcus Kane's old jersey number.

See, Coach was looking all disappointed because Bellamy's first instinct when asked to join the team was to laugh. Loud, throaty laughter, rumbling from his chest. Bellamy's next thought, when Miller didn't think it was as funny, was that the coach was getting really desperate. Desperate, now that the regionals of the state championship were starting soon and Reyes was injured, along with half the team just having got suspended for accidentally starting a fire in the gym last week.

The captain was not one amongst them, even though Bellamy knew for a fact it was her doing, since Lexa is the only teenager in Arkadia who carries expensive candlewood scented candles on her person. Her dad must have something on Principal Wallace though, because she never gets in trouble for anything.

Since Lexa _didn't_  get suspended, that was coincidentally also the reason he couldn't join. He wouldn't. Besides the whole unspoken dibs thing they had going on, every time he even so much as thought about joining something Lexa is part of, he remembered his mom. More precisely, he remembered the look on his mom's face when she had to look Kane in the eye at Bellamy's first Little League game. Back then at the age of five he didn't think sharing something with Lexa was that big of deal, he barely understood what it all meant anyway. It was then he promised himself to never let his mom have to go through anything like that again, not as long as it was in his hands.

It was in his hands, right then, sitting across from Coach Miller and being asked to join the team. The answer was no. The answer was going to stay no. He was already on his way to the door, hand on the it's handle when Miller called out his name. When he turned, the coach unfolded a blue colored piece of fabric he must've dug out of his desk and held it out like a piece of parchment.

It was a jersey—Arkadia's soccer team's jersey—the name Blake plastered on the back of it. Bellamy's heart stopped dead in his chest. When he met Coach Miller's satisfied gaze, he willed himself to shake his head. And when his head wouldn't budge, he willed it harder, reaching for the door handle again. Miller was making it way harder than it had to be. "It's not just that I can't join—I don't want to, okay?"

Coach Miller simply smiled, and wasn't hard not to find it just  _a little_  condescending. Like somehow the older men had all the answers, and it was just a matter of time before Bellamy would figure out he was right all along and would be thanking him down on his knees. "At least take it, son. I have no use for it."

Bellamy stared at the fabric in his hand, swallowing tightly, while Miller edged on innocently. "If you don't care about any of this, it should be no trouble to you to take this and get rid of it yourself. Since I ordered it in your name, I'm not allowed to discard it on school property."

It was a load of bullshit, and they both knew it. But when Bellamy looked up at his friend's dad with slitted eyes, and the older man stared right back, all-mighty smirk still steady on his face—he realized he couldn't like, _actually_ give in without admitting he did care. About the stupid jersey, or the stupid team. So he ended up yanking the damn thing from his grip and storming out of his office.

His second biggest mistake in life was not burning the damn thing as soon as he got home. As soon as he read the same page six times without actually registering a word—eight, knowing it was just Coach Miller getting into his head prolonged his self control—and couldn't ignore the fact that the thing was in his backpack any longer, he caved and tried it on in his room.

His  _biggest_  mistake in life, he realized, standing there in front of his mirror and looking at himself in a baby blue colored Grounders jersey with white borders. Almost laughing out loud at himself, at the ridiculousness of it all—for a second there, he felt all warm inside, like he could actually pull it off and the next, he just felt overwhelming panic-stricken guilt.  _This isn't who I am._  Biggest, he realized, because his mom chose that exact moment to walk in on him.

It wasn't worth any of the trouble, no matter how much he liked playing soccer, or how good he was at it. It was not worth the look on his mom's face as soon as she registered what he was wearing, a pained look of utter betrayal.

Again, he accepted the fact that this wasn't going to happen. He was going to have to get rid of the jersey as soon as possible, apologize to his mom and then never mention it again. But when he got downstairs to tell her as much, she was crying, telling him she doesn't want to hold him back from living his life any longer. She smelt like lemongrass, sitting down beside him and taking his hand in hers, thumb rubbing the back of his hand comfortingly.

 _Your father took something from me, and because that hurt me beyond comprehension, I've been taking something from you all this time. You're so talented._ So _talented, and you've made me so proud. Helping me raise Octavia, taking care of me when I was sick, doing so good in school despite it all. You put your life on hold for so long. You get to have something for yourself now. You deserve it._

It all felt pretty surreal to him. It does to this day. He still isn't sure that it wasn't a hallucination, or some fucked up test his mom came up with. Maybe a night terror, even.

Lexa wasn't all that thrilled he was joining her team, surprisingly. She all-but threatened their coach with physical violence. Called it bad recruiting, dictatorship, a  _joke_. Dropped the ball lodged under her arm on the green grass and kicked it over the fence, knocking her shoulder against Bellamy's purposely as she passed him to go get it. That was just in public.

In private, she cornered him after practice, waiting on him outside of the boys' locker room. Her face bear for once, hair damp and falling loose over her shoulder. Typing away on her iPhone, one of the newest editions, with glossy black-painted fingernails.

He walked straight passed her, even though she caught up with him within a stride or two. "How much?"

Bellamy stopped dead in his tracks. "Excuse me?" He actually  _stuttered_ , because he was that taken aback by the sheer audacity of her statement. Who the hell did she think she was? He's suddenly remembering why he actually made an effort to avoid her all this time.

Lexa gave him a quick once over, chewing leisurely on her gum as she readjusted the strap of her gym bag on her shoulder. Her eyes lingered on his beat-up chucks. "You clearly need it. Name a prize, I will get it for you within a week."

"No amount of money in the world could make me quit this team," Bellamy bit back, brow furrowing together and fists balling at his sides. He grit his teeth together so hard, he was afraid they might snap. "And even if there was, I would never in a million years take _yours_."

Her face remained neutral, lip just slightly curled in disdain. "Fine. How about you earn your place on the team?"

He snorted, loud and bold and a little vengeful. "That's rich, coming from you, miss Kane. Didn't your dad sponsor the new gym?" Two can play that game.

Lexa's jaw clenched, and it seemed like he reached a sore spot for just a second, before her green eyes turned a shade darker, stepping closer towards him. She jutted her chin out, and even though he had at least a few inches on her, it was still kind of intimidating. "Any place, any time. A duel. You and me."

She strode even closer, so close their chests were almost touching but not quite. She tilted her head slowly. He had to crane his neck slightly to properly look down at her, but somehow it felt like she was towering over him. He kept his face straight though. Finally, she concluded, "When I win, you quit the team."

He doesn't miss the emphasis on the  _when_. Not if, but when. Honestly, Bellamy had expected the backlash, prepared for it even, braced himself for it. It's just that now he was actually there—having smelt the freshly cut grass after a long day at school, felt the Grounders jersey stick to his sweaty back with each movement on the field, felt the adrenaline from a weird mix of excitement and competitivity pumping through his veins—he wasn't willing to ever give it up.

And Lexa, she was  _team captain_. The entire team, besides Miller (he assumes, since they're friends and he always calls his captain a dictator), was already on her side. He had to do something, to prove to them he was worthy. So he told her yes.

Miller advised him he should at least do it on his turf—so he picked the old asphalt game court behind the community center in their neighbourhood, The Ark—and Octavia told him to get it over with as soon as possible before he seemed like a, and he quotes, pussy—so he messaged Lexa the next day to arrange a meet-up for that evening—and that was that.

His friends came, so did hers. (Her girlfriend, too. He tried not to focus on that too much.) Octavia was there, wore a shirt with his name on it, continuously screamed ' _that's my brother_ ' every time he had the ball which he thinks was mostly just to annoy Lexa. They each took ten penalty kicks. Bellamy in the goal first, then Lexa. It was six to six when he picked up his last ball and situated it on the faded penalty mark.

"It is a shame your mother is not here to see how her son is going to end up in second place," Lexa smirked, hunched over with her elbows on her knees. She didn't even seem worried, which just pissed him off even more. Her friends edged her on, but she only kept her eyes on Bellamy's—their greenness a dark, angry hazel because of the dim streetlights. "Runs in the family, I guess."

Bellamy took a step back from the ball, using the neckline of his shirt to wipe some sweat of his brow. He kept his eyes on the ball.  _Your father took something from me._  "This one's for her." Then he kicked the ball, and it landed in the far right corner of the goal. Lexa missed it by a hair.

Six to seven. She straightened her posture, teeth gritted together as his friends engulfed him in a triumphal group hug. Octavia jumped on his back, pumping her fist in the air, "Guess who's on the soccer team, bitches!" His friends cheered and hollered and howled, and even though he was smiling, basking in it all—over their shoulders he couldn't help but watch Lexa's girlfriend put her hand on his opponent's shoulder. Lexa shrugged it off, angrily, storming off towards her all-electric, all-black SUV and slamming the door loudly.

He just won, but for some reason it didn't quite feel like a victory. He might be on the Grounders, but it wasn't like he was actually welcome.

They lost their first game, because  _both_  he and Lexa get a red card in the second half. He's not saying the rest of the team isn't good, but it's kind of hard to catch up on a 1-2 when you're playing nine to eleven.

A red card, for fighting. Each other.

Lexa gets a corner kick, and even though he is completely free, does not send the ball his way. He tries not to get riled up about this because this is just his first game and Octavia is out there in the stands, tries to keep breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, tries to think of puppies and babies and the Greeks coming up with the cunning idea of smuggling their men into enemy territory with a giant wooden horse.

Instead, Lexa kicks it to their sweeper Cabor, who then kicks it over to him anyway. By then the centre-back from the other team has figured out he wasn't covered by anyone, so Bellamy's shot on the goal gets blocked.

The ball crosses the touchline, so they get a throw-in. Miller kicks the ball towards him and he's on his way to the sidelines—since he is closest and a second striker and that—but Lexa catches up with him, knocking her shoulder into his. Hard.

"I will take it from here," Lexa sneers, adjusting the thin, white Nike headband she's wearing. She refuses to even make eye-contact, like he's below her and not worth her sight. He tries to keep breathing, tries to justify her. His favorite position is centre-forward, or mainstriker, whatever you want to call it. It coincidentally happens to be Lexa's position as well. So he budged, told Coach Miller he would take on second striker. She probably just feels threatened. "As you've proven, you're completely useless." Then she tears the ball from his hands, and he just snaps.

Maybe it's his fucking temper, or maybe it's the level of adrenaline pumping through his veins at the moment, or maybe it's her stupid little vindictive comments every waking hour but he finds himself pulling her back by the arm. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

She stops dead in her tracks, glaring up at him as she makes a show of pulling her arm lose from his grip roughly. "I'm the _captain_  of this goddamn team."

Lexa drops the ball, stalks closer to him, and then retaliates by pushing him. The unexpected force has his feet slipping on the damp grass, and he ends up down on his ass. The crowd starts screaming (or maybe cheering, he can't really tell), Coach Miller is yelling for them to stop from across the field, the referee is whistling for maybe the eighth time in thirty seconds.

"Well, you're not  _my_ captain," Bellamy informs her, hooking his foot around the back of her ankle, then pulling it forward so she loses her balance as well. She falls down beside him on her stomach, dirt stuck to her cheek, and she elbows him, hard. He winces, and she grits her teeth together, pushing herself of the ground to lean on her elbows. "Learn to take a fucking order, Blake! Like your mother has been doing her entire life."

Bellamy tugs on her wrist so she falls back down on her stomach, scoffing. "I can do whatever the hell I want." She tackles him back down to the ground and they start rolling around like two idiots, until finally Coach Miller gets to them, and pulls her off.

The referee ordered them off the field, and in the girls' locker room they were on the receiving end of a verbal asskicking by coach Miller for a good fifteen minutes while Bellamy saw double from the headache he had and Lexa actively bled from her nose.

Nate offered him a ice pack once he found him in their locker room after the game, after everyone's left and he's still sitting there, sulking, mentally preparing how to explain his face to his mom. "I thought you had her, man." It's a lame excuse for why he didn't jump in, but Bellamy figures a third red card wouldn't have done anyone any good. Especially not the team.

Bellamy snorted, half-heartedly glaring up at his friend. "She fights dirty. What about the rest of the squad?" He winced as he pressed the ice pack to his temple. He had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror earlier, and a black ring was already starting to form around his eye.

Miller sat down beside him on the bench, hissing sympathetically but making it clear he was lying straight through his teeth. "They were probably hoping she'd kick your ass."

"God," Bellamy groaned, ducking his head and leaning his forehead against the palm of his hand. Last week during practice, each and every player in the team had completely ignored him. Wasn't until coach had threatened them with suspension that they at least passed the ball to him every once every fifteen minutes. "This is so fucked up."

Miller clapped him on the back supportively, and they both looked up as someone knocked on one of the lockers. It was Harper, thumbs lodged in her back pockets, smiling cheekily. She was wearing a Grounders jersey, too big and tied at her hip. "Nate should've told them the only way to hurt you is emotionally."

"Sticks and stones, sticks and stones," Nathan agreed while Bellamy pushed his knee against his warningly. Monroe appears beside Harper, waving. "Calling him names will definitely have him crying in his bed at night."

They're lucky they weren't kicked off the team, to be honest.

"I'm just surprised they didn't all gang up on me. Most of them refuse to look at me," Bellamy admitted, honestly. He didn't really see how any of it would change, not soon anyway. "The other day they hid my clothes after practice. I had to walk the halls  _naked_ to go to lost and found." Just him and a spare basketball he found lying around.

"That was actually Miller," Monroe piped up, cynical smirk on her face, and Nate kicked her in the shin.

Harper sat down on the bench beside him, hands intertwined between her knees as she knocked her shoulder against his. "Maybe you should level out the playing field? Get more people on your side?"

"Wow, had not thought of that," Bellamy bit back, sarcastic, but she just raised her eyebrows, unrelenting. Used to his emotional outbursts by now. He scoffs, actually answering her question now. "Yeah, right. These people are Mount Weather born and raised."

They all live in Arkadia's one and only gated community, driving around in their expensive cars and paying people to clean their mansions and cook their food. Even if Lexa wasn't a factor, these people would still resent him. He's from Tondc, like Miller, Harper and Monroe. They live on the wrong side of the tracks, _literally_. Tondc is the poorest neighbourhood in all of Arkadia, most locals getting by on food stamps or working two jobs to provide for their family. Mount Weather residents have _always l_ ooked down on them, will always look down on them. Nothing he could say or do could ever change that.

"I wasn't talking about them." Bellamy's head snapped up as he blinked at her, sober, and Harper's smile widened as she nodded her head towards Monroe. "Learn to share your success, Blake. You and Miller need to get us in on all the fun."

"Yeah," Monroe agreed, shooting her hair tie at Miller's face. He caught it right before it hit him in the eye. "We barely see you two now you're both on the team. We miss being able to roast you guys on the daily."

It makes sense. Harper and Monroe were two kickass players. He wouldn't mind looking to his left to see Harper as his winger, or have Monroe pass him great assists from the midfield. Their reasoning for not joining had always been that they didn't need to be on a team as long as the four of them would play at the Ark together. Which was code for showing solidarity to him. (Also, he thinks Lexa kind of scared the shit out of them in that way only teen girls can scare other teen girls.)

Miller whistled. "Lexa is really not going to like it," he reasoned, shooting the hair-tie back at Monroe. It hit her in the shoulder and she feigned hurt before flipping him the double bird.

"She isn't," Bellamy granted, but he was grinning, putting the ice pack down in his lap. "That's exactly why you two are absolute geniuses."

Miller sighed, shaking his head to himself as he watched Harper and Monroe fistbump Bellamy. "You're a special kind of petty bitch, Blake."

Clarke—Clarke is where the whole thing gets messy.

Before this whole ordeal, Bellamy maybe had two or three conversations with Clarke Griffin in his life. And with conversations, he obviously meant an exchange of words that never went above or beyond a muffled ' _thanks_ ' for picking up the pencil she dropped or ' _wow, you're completely wrong about capitalism and it's effect on wage labour_ ' followed by a rant that wasn't  _directly_  addressed at her so didn't actually count. They didn't exactly get along. Yet…

Yet their eyes always found each other in a busy room, they ran into each other in the most random places and she was in his thoughts more often than not. Just like faith helped him stay away as far as possible from Lexa, it only seemed to push him into Clarke's direction. Clarke.  _Lexa's girlfriend_ Clarke.

After joining the soccer team, things only got worse. First it was her car that broke down on the middle of the road, on the day of his personal duel with Lexa.

Bellamy started working at Polaris, one of Arkadia's auto shops, when he was fourteen. His mom had to stop working because of the depression, and he figured it was the least he could do to try and keep the household running. Octavia was thirteen, eating like a horse, and food stamps were barely enough to get them by. His mom had some money stashed away for rent, but it would never have been enough for the time she eventually ended up spending at home. Even after they got he got her on the meds she needed and she went back to work, he kept the job. They might not have needed the money to buy groceries anymore, but they sure could use it as a safety net for unexpected expenses, or to buy Octavia stuff they usually considered luxuries. Like a new cheerleading uniform, or pop tarts.

Like any other regular Saturday, he squeezes in a few hours of work before helping his mom with dinner at home and meeting his friends after. He's bend over the hood of a car with a seriously busted head gasket, scratching the back of his head with a wrench in thought about how to best fix it when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Figuring this isn't a problem he can solve without a cup of caffeine, he sighs, throwing the utensil into his toolbox and fishing his phone from his pocket on his way to the coffee machine.

**Lexifer [01:03 AM]**

> _I hereby confirm your request to meet. 8PM The Ark._

He rolls his eyes at the cracked screen of his phone. She literally writes like she time traveled here from the 1800s, but then like she knows how to use a phone. Sinclair—his boss—claps him on the shoulder, handing him a piece of paper with an address on it, asking him if he can go take a look a car stranded on the side of the road. "It doesn't sound good, so take the tow truck."

When he arrives there, of course it's fucking Clarke Griffin.

"Hi, thanks for coming," she declares, arms wrapped around her torso for warmth, thin jacket and Mötley Crüe cropped tee not doing much to shield her from the cold. Her high-waisted jeans are stained with paint. She looks relieved enough, but aversion coats the tone of her voice. Her blonde hair is half-up, but the wind blows a few lose strands of hair away from her face.

"No problem," he notes, dry. He walks over to Clarke's light-blue 1963 Mercury Comet convertible. She's a beauty that he's admired from a far a couple of times. He takes a good look at her, running a hand over the side of the hood before looking up at the blonde. "So what's her problem?"

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Finally, she asks, "The car?"

He chokes back a snort. "Yeah, what else would I be talking about?"

Her jaw flexes, and her arms tighten a little around her body, but she doesn't elaborate. Instead, she discloses with a shrug of her shoulders, "I don't know. The oil light—thing was red for a second, but I thought I could make it home and just Google how to change my oil from there. Then it just stopped completely."

Bellamy inwardly winces, telling her he'll take a look under the hood even though he's pretty sure not even God herself could fix this car at this point. He spends fifteen minutes trying to make something out of nothing, but it's no use. The engine is basically a melted mass of amalgamated metals, because she ran the car for too long even though it had no oil pressure, completely seized. "Your engine—it's basically a 900 pound garden sculpture at this point."

Clarke's nostrils flare as she lifts one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, and because he's basically an idiot, he can only think of the fact how cute she looks with her cheeks pink from a mixture of agitation and the cold. "So that means you can't fix it?"

Bellamy straightens, wiping some sweat from his brow. He shrugged out of the top half of his jumpsuit at one point, tying it around his waist so he was just wearing a white t-shirt. Which is crazy with this kind of weather, but he was always overheated. "Not here at least. You're going to need a new engine." Which has a 3000 to 10000 dollar price tag, but it isn't like she can't afford it.

"Okay," she mutters, biting down on her bottom lip as she starts pulling something out of the pocket of her flimsy jacket. She inhales sharply, repeating it to herself, as she rubs her forehead with the bottom of her palm. "Okay."

Once she starts texting, he slams the hood of the car shut, cutting in, rather annoyed, "So I have your permission to attach the car to the tow truck?" He swallows down a  _your highness_  just in time, because her head snaps up to look at him.

Clarke looks up from her phone. She blinks at him for a second, like she's trying to process the question. Then, she says, "Yeah, sure."

"Do you want a ride?" He asks, against his better judgement, eyebrows lifted. "Once I'm done?"

"No," she answers, impatient. "Lexa is picking me up." It maybe kind of sounds like she wants him to hurry up and leave already.

His fingers curl into fists, but he figures she's not really worth it and it's not really anything he isn't used to. At the end of the day, they're nothing to each other but a mechanic and a customer. He should at least try and be polite. He gets to work on his actual job, reversing the truck and hooking it up to her convertible, while Clarke stands there and stares at her phone.

After about ten minutes, when her car is partly lifted of the ground and he can safely get back to the shop, he hesitates, fingers wrapped around the door handle of his truck. She's no longer just staring, but frowning, and shivering, and soon she'll be alone, in an abandoned street.  _Lexa is picking me up._ He shakes his head, opening the door and sitting down in his truck.

Bellamy turns the key in the ignition, and the engine coughs before it starts. He looks at her in his side mirror, curses to himself, and despite knowing better, turns the engine back off and climbs out of his truck.

"Hey," he calls out, nodding at her when she looks up. The answer is going to be no, but hey, at least when he finds out she was kidnapped and murdered in the papers tomorrow, he'll be able to tell himself he at least offered to get her somewhere safe. "You sure you don't need a ride?"

She turns to look behind her one more time, then lets out a deep breath, closing the distance between them. "Okay. Thanks."

He opens the car door for her, closes it too, after she climbs in. He gets into the driver's seat, watching her rub her hands together and blow on them like it'll actually help. When he starts the engine back up, she immediately reaches out to fumble with his radio settings. The sleeve of her jacket rises up her arm to reveal an expensive looking silver watch on her wrist.

After about five minutes of awkward silence besides giving him her address, she remarks, aggravated, "Does your heater not work or something?"

He grits his teeth together. "Heat costs gas, princess. Wear a sweater." It's a petty thing to say, because this is not even his car. It's Sinclair's. And he's pretty sure Sinclair would not care about the extra gas money if it meant that his employees weren't freezing themselves to death. Still, it's about the principle of it all. She's entitled. And clearly does not realize her own privileges in life.

"Princess?" Clarke scoffs, sitting back in her seat and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "First of all, you don't know me. Second of all, you don't know me."

He lifts his hand off the stick shift and holds it up in mock defense. After a minute of her pointedly looking out of the window and not at him, he reaches over to change the heater to a warmer setting. Next, he changes the radio station, just because he can. Electric Love by BØRNS drums through his speakers, while her phone keeps buzzing in her pocket.

"What's up with you and Lexa anyway?" Clarke snaps all of a sudden, turning down the volume.

He huffs, humourless, eyebrows automatically furrowing together. He has about a million different ways to describe it, but he's not sure he wants to get into it with Lexa's  _girlfriend,_  so he settles on the obvious, "We share a father."

"So I've heard," she drawls, unimpressed. Bellamy can't quite imagine Lexa as the kind of person who overshares, or shares, really. So he guesses he's the only other person she can interrogate. "Kane's kind of an ass. So that must suck, having to see him around all the time."

At first he thinks she's rubbing it in, like it's some ploy to get into his head and unconsciously make him quit the team. Then, he looks over, ready to confront her about it, and instead catches her gaze for a second and realizes she's completely genuine.

"I don't know, I mean—" He starts, lifting a shoulder indifferently, breaking off his sentence as he turns on his blinker and makes a left. The houses are getting nicer and nicer, the closer they get to Mount Weather. "I mean, I don't know him. I just know what my mom told me."

Clarke raises her eyebrows. "And the fact he doesn't want to see you?"

His jaw flexes, just a second. "That, too."

"Well, I don't think you're missing out on anything really." She leans her elbow on the window and supports her head with her fist, shoulders more relaxed now the car is warmer. "His motivational speeches slash patronizing lectures slash my wrists fantasy coming to life every time he opens his mouth."

He chokes back a laugh, meets her eyes in the rearview mirror. "I can only imagine."

It's quiet between the two of them as their smiles fade, and his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. Truth is, he doesn't imagine much about Kane. He's fantasized about having a dad, sure. In the abstract way people wonder about traditional familial roles that are missing from their life at pivotal moments. Like, when he bought his first car. Or when his mom tried to teach him to shave. He wondered then, what it be like. But he's never given him a face, especially not Kane's. He bought a car, learned how to shave. Everything is relative.

After a minute, she wonders, "Your mom told you?" For some reason, it doesn't really feel like prying, just like genuine interest.

He kind of  _wants_  to tell her, now. "Me and Lexa were on the same Little League team. Some of the other kids were teasing me about having the same dad as her. So I asked my mom." He pauses for a second as he has to stop in front of a stop sign, starts back up when his car does, too, sighing quietly. "She told me it wasn't true. But then we got home, and I heard her crying in her room. I knew it was true, then. So I told my mom I didn't want to look at his face anymore." Bellamy swallows tight, lifting a shoulder indifferently. "But mostly it was because I wanted to spare her. I couldn't stop thinking about the look on  _her_ face." His grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles turning white. "The look on her face when he and Lexa rode by us in the parking lot after a game. He didn't see us, but my mom, she saw him."

She looks uncomfortable, fingers playing with the zipper of her jacket. She probably doesn't want to hear this. Lexa is her girlfriend, and like it or not, Kane is her father-in-law.

He has to stop in front of the boom barrier, a surly man asking him what his business is here before he notices Clarke. She waves at him, his hostile posture immediately deflating. "Oh, hello Miss Griffin. Welcome back."

She smiles, it doesn't reach her eyes, and the guard pushes a button, lifting the bar for them. Bellamy starts driving again, passing mansion after mansion after mansion. Each one bigger than the next.

"My dad died a few years back," Clarke tells him, casual. She rests her hands on her lap, one finger circling the face of her watch softly. "It was my birthday. He went to pick me up from school like he promised, ran through a red light because he was running late, and was hit by a car. He died instantly." She stares off into the distance, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "People run red lights all the time—he does once, because he didn't want to disappoint me, and he dies."

Bellamy swallows, tightly. Then offers, "If I could, I would trade mine for yours in a heartbeat." He's come to the conclusion he would do a lot for this girl he barely knows, which includes voluntarily coming to Mount Weather, and he doesn't know why.

She smiles, barely, absent. He pulls to a stop in front of the address she gave him. Number 100.

"Well, thanks," she starts, hand on the door handle, and something lingers between them—the why. Why they just told each other all of that shit. They don't even know each other. "For the ride." She brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "Can you text me when the car is done?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "You want me to send an invoice before we start?"

"No, that won't be necessary," she dismisses him, rolling her eyes and opening the door before swinging her legs out. "My mom will pay whatever. Bye." He would love for his someday to include 10.000 dollars being a simple 'whatever'.

Right before his next game, he's talking to Octavia on the side of the field, having wandered off from the rest of the cheerleading squad a little. They're discussing dinner plans (chicken curry with grandma's coconut milk sauce vs. mac and cheese), the washing schedule (white's are coming up), how well Octavia's crush on Atom is faring while he tries and refrain from having to go on blood pressure medication, regular stuff.

Freshman year, Bellamy told her to join a sports club, because it could help with her college applications and maybe even get her some sort of scholarship. Her suggestion was starting a mixed martial arts club, and—since he liked his sister alive and with her neck not broken—he told her absolutely fucking not. He wasted his  _one_  big brother veto, and the next day she auditioned for the cheerleading squad, just to stick it to him. Not that he had anything against cheerleading, it was just that only a  _special_  kind of type of people joined a sport like that. Besides, she hadn't ever been very graceful or... cheerful. But like most things, Octavia turned out to be a natural.

Octavia leans her elbow on his shoulder for support as she lifts up her leg and starts to adjust the white sneaker on her foot, pompoms dangling from her hand and tickling his chin. "Are you finally going to use your last two brain cells and come to the afterparty?"

"Not today, O," he sighs, steadying her when she wobbles on her leg. "I have work in the morning." It's not only a convenient excuse, it's true. Besides, when the day comes he feels like spending his free time chugging beer at Lexa Kane's lake house, Octavia will be the very first person to know.

Someone clears their throat from behind them, and Octavia lets go of her shoe and Bellamy respectively as they both look over their shoulders to find Clarke standing behind them. The sight he sees has him inhale sharply; her blonde hair is up in a high ponytail, a triangle of three small stars painted on her cheekbone just below her eye, the front of her light-blue uniform reading 'Grounders' in capital letters across her chest. This time of year they still wear white turtleneck under their uniform, but the legs. God, the fucking  _legs_. This is exactly why he never looked over to the cheerleaders, to avoid the image manifesting in his head right this very moment as they speak.

"Warm-ups?" She offers Octavia with a smile, who nods, pinching her brother's bicep, no mercy. She points a finger at him, squinting at him through her eyes as she starts walking backwards towards the squad. "Time to soccer for your life, big bro. And remember—"

"Don't fuck it up, yeah, yeah," he fills in for her, sarcastic close-lipped grin on his face as he waves her off.

"Heads up!" Someone yells, and when he shifts his head toward the sound, he sees a ball flying through the air and directly at Clarke. He snatches it out of the air, narrowingly missing her face. The blonde smirks, letting out a humoured huff. "Nice hands."

His eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. Is she flirting with him? "Nice legs." Flirting or not, he  _definitely_  is.

"Blake," someone says from behind him, and of course it's fucking Lexa. He can just barely stop himself from cringing. When he arrived to the locker room that afternoon, he found his uniform—drenched. Luckily, Miller had a spare set but the whole hazing thing was just getting old. Now that she literally walked in on him talking to her girlfriend, that probably meant it would only get worse. Annoyed, Lexa reminds him, "The ball?"

He glances over at Clarke, brief, before pushing the ball into her girlfriend's hands, then starting towards the midfield for their own warming up. Lexa catches up with him, grabbing him by the arm. "You want to take my entire world from me?"

"I'm not trying to take anything from you, Lexa," he spits, tired of this whole game, tugging his arm lose from her grip. They stop walking, a few feet away from the rest of the team. "Contrary to what you think, I didn't join this team out of spite." His entire life doesn't revolve around her, even if she likes to think so.

"Right," Lexa bites back, calmly, even though he can see the nails of her free hand digging into her palm, creating angry red crescent-shaped welts. "That's why Miller made  _you_ centre forward, and degraded  _me_  to second striker."

"Look, it makes sense," Bellamy comments, arrogantly, because he can't help it. He searches her face, green eyes hollow on his, smudged eye black on the middle of her cheekbones. He still feels like he can't get through to her, no matter what. He keeps bouncing up against a steel wall, and there's not even a dent in sight. "I'm taller, broader, it'll be easier for me to break through the line of defense."

A second striker has to be quick, mobile, skillful. She is all of those things and more. It's a better fucking fit, not a date in his Take Over Lexa Kane's Life agenda.

"What's next? You're going to tell me your penis makes you a more accurate shooter?" Lexa glares at him, pushing at his chest. Growling, she continues with the same monotone voice, "I've been training for this my entire life. I was _born_  for this. This is my team. These are my people. And I am  _not_ going to let some second-rate, undesired piece—"

"You through?" He cuts her off, gruff, hands resting on his hips. He's so tired of her fucking attitude. He gets it; she's defensive of her crew, of her position. Whatever. His patience is wearing thin. "If you have a problem, take it up with the fucking coach." With that, he stalks away from her, closing the little distance left between them and the middle line to join the rest of the squad, doing their pre-game stretches.

They win, by a hair, and it's not because of their great display of teamwork. Far from it.

Lexa gets a yellow card for an aggressive tackle for the ball, then blames Bellamy for not intercepting the ball earlier. They basically split up into two teams after that, Camp Kane and Camp Blake; ignoring undefended players if they're not friends with them, not hijacking the ball if the wrong forward is too close to it, calling each other names; until they get a throw-in, and she starts instructing him how to do it. Word for word. He tells her to shut up, and she pushes him. He doesn't budge, so she pushes him again.

He moves—to get away from her and just throw it in over her head, raising the ball in the air—and just as he steps back, makes eye-contact with Nate and tries to throw the ball towards him, Lexa pushes him again. She knocks him straight into the cheerleaders, taking a few girls tumbling down with him. Including Clarke. He has to wait for who he thinks is Ontari to get off his back before he can roll off the blonde, apologizing to the girls under his breath and quickly pulling his hand back when he realizes it's resting on Clarke's bare side, where her uniform rode up during their tumble to the grass. Clarke avoids his gaze as soon as he gets off her, which figures. Of course she's on Lexa's side.

Then, Lexa towers over him, shaking her head like she didn't just fucking push him herself, kicking the ball to the touchline and throwing it in herself. In retribution, Coach Miller literally throws  _them_  off the bus, twenty miles from Arkadia. At least. With nothing but the clothes on their backs.

"We won," Lexa argues, the folding doors of the bus closing in their faces. Bellamy catches Miller waving at him with both hands, mouthing ' _have fun_ ' through the window, Harper pushing him aside by palming his face and holding her hands up to her face like she's in a boxing match. Even through the glass he can make out a, "Keep your hands up!"

As the bus rolls away, he watches his friends literally laugh and point at him in his face, thinking this is oh-so-funny. Monroe holding up her phone to film their departure, probably live on Instagram. They're right, it's most likely going to end up in one of them getting murdered. And at this point in time, he can only pray it's him.

"We should just follow this road," Bellamy informs her, mostly just out of principle, as he starts stalking down the same road as the bus drove off on. He doesn't really care if she comes or not.

"And you think I'm listening to you, why?" Lexa counters, but maybe she still agrees, because she starts walking alongside him. On the other side of the road, but still. They're going in the same general direction. "You are so arrogant."

He tsks. "So are you."

"I'm confident. There's a difference," she states, simply, folding her arms around herself. It is a little chilly out, but he refuses to feel sorry for her. "I've earned the right to be confident in my abilities, because I've proved myself over and over again. I can't say the same of you."

She keeps talking about earning shit, like he did something to not deserve his father's love when he was a fucking baby. "What? Like you proved yourself at the Parent-Kid game last week?" He huffs, unimpressed. "Real piece of work that man."

(He watched them at the annual parent-kid basketball game for charity last week. He had to sit that one out because he couldn't possibly ask his mom to play with him against Marcus Kane, so he accidentally refrained from mentioning it.

He didn't regret it either, when the sperm donor walked up to Bellamy sitting on the front row of the bleachers with Harper—she only had her dad at home, and he suffered from a chronic illness—and made a dig at the fact his last name luckily wasn't Kane. "That would be an embarrassment to the lineage, don't you think?"

"What a dick," Harper said, loud enough for Kane to hear as he walked back onto the field.

The entire game Lexa and Marcus were at each other's throat, both competitive beyond words. The parents were starting to lose, and that's when it got ugly. In the last few minutes of the game, Kane had Lexa trip over his foot, let her lie there in obvious pain, and then told her to get up and stop being so 'weak'. When she was handed the ball for a free throw, she dropped it down at her feet and offered it to her dad. "You want to win so bad, you can have it."

He took the ball, scored the winning goal, brought the parent team to victory. Lexa huffed, humoured, nostrils flaring slightly as she came face to face with her dad. "You will never be better than me, and what you just did proved that."

It definitely wasn't a relationship he was envious of. But it couldn't be easy, for her.)

"Fuck you, Bellamy," Lexa spits, freezing in place, and it might be the only time she's ever said his name. "You have no idea what he's like, what he's done for me.'

"No, but I know what he's done for me." And it ain't shit, he tells you that.

Lexa chokes back a vindictive chuckle. "You should stop blaming other people for what's missing in your life, and start—"

"How can I blame myself for him abandoning us—" He does, all the time, but that's both beside the point and none of her business.

"Blame your mom then, I don't care!" Her arms flatten out at her sides, her shoulders eerily straight. "As long as you keep my father's name out of your mouth, we—"

Lexa cuts herself off as she blocks her eyes from a pair of headlights pulling up to a stop in front of them, holding her hand up in front of her brows. For a second, they both hope Coach Miller changed his mind and came back for them; but the closer the car rolls, the clearer it becomes it's just a car. Besides, their coach is a softy at heart, but not if he's in the middle of a tough love lesson.

A honk blares, and Bellamy and Lexa exchange a wary glance. The doors open, a tall guy leaning on it as he gets out of the car, chucking an empty beer can into the bushes beside him carelessly. "If it isn't the Grounders one and only royal couple, lover's quarrel over?"

Bellamy straightens his shoulder, tries to appear as calm as possible, even if someone did just imply he has a romantic relationship with his biological half-sister. These must be people from Eden High, or they wouldn't have seen them at the game earlier. Either they're part of their soccer squad the Serpents—which isn't good because the Grounders just obliterated their asses without really trying—or they were in the crowd—which isn't good because they might want to witness another ass-kicking between him and Lexa for fun—and neither option sounds good to him.

A different guy slides out of the passenger's seat, and while he chugs down the last of his beer and flattening the can between his hands, Bellamy can just faintly make out another on the backseat. Three against two, if it comes to it. "Y'all want a ride?"

"There's no way I'm getting into a car with a spoiler and a personalized license plate," Lexa informs him, under her breath. He follows her gaze over to the A55MAN plate. "I might be gay but I know that's code for fuckboys of the first degree."

Bellamy stares at her, apparently she takes this as a sign he doesn't buy her reasoning so she presses, "It has neon orange tribal flames stickers on the side."

He raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. He knows this situation isn't technically her fault, but he still can't keep from blaming her. Bellamy snorts, light but still spiteful. "I was never planning on getting in a car with a bunch of strange men. I'm still a minority."

Lexa rolls her eyes, looking back out at the car. She speaks louder, so they can hear her clearly as she brushes them off diplomatically. "That won't be necessary."

One of the guys strolls closer, revealing him to be McCreary, the goalie of the Serpents. "I'm Paxton, that's Vincent, and the big guy on the backseat, that's Kodiak. Remember us?"

"Doesn't ring a bell," Lexa delivers tauntingly, toned arms crossed over her chest, and a provocation of three obviously drunk guys was really not on Bellamy's to-do list tonight. He tightens his jaw, casually elbowing her in the ribs. Her attitude is about the last thing they could use now.

McCreary smirks, ugly and vindictive, and then it fades suddenly. "Get in the car, bitch."

Lexa opens her mouth, but Bellamy takes a step forward, feeling protective all of a sudden as he holds up his hands. He doesn't like the way McCreary's beady eyes are roaming over her body, the tone in his voice, or the implication of his words. Besides, Bellamy's the only one allowed to call her names—he just decided that. "Don't talk to her like that."

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me," Lexa flashes, and he shifts his head over his shoulder to look at her, annoyed. "Seriously? You want to do this now?"

"You two are ever so adorable," McCreary sniggers, then reaches for something from the back of his jeans. He reveals a gun to them, taking off the safety. Fucking US of A. "Now get in the fucking car."

That's how they end up squeezed in the backseat of their first generation Suzuki Cultus, Bellamy flanked by a very sweaty Kodiak and a very steaming angry Lexa. "You're sitting on my hair," she informs him, aggravated, as she pushes his arm away from her.

He growls, through gritted teeth, "My sincere apologies for not taking your hair in account while being forced to get in a car at gunpoint."

"I want you both to take off your shirts," McCreary orders with a smirk. He snickers at the looks on their faces, pointing the gun from Bellamy to Lexa and back. "And strip to your panties next."

He doesn't particularly like Lexa, but asking her to strip naked is kind of crossing multiple lines here. "Come on, man—" Bellamy starts, pulling on the headrests of the front seat to get closer to McCreary, until Kodiak pulls him back. His back slams back into the seat and he forces himself not to wince.

"Relax," McCreary orders, his brow furrowing together as he points at Lexa with the gun, pretending Bellamy is like  _seriously_  killing the mood right now. "She can keep on her bra."

The car pulls up at a gas station, and he makes them get out. He has Vincent write something on their naked backs with a thick black sharpie. McCreary pulls on Lexa's half-up, half-down bun until it comes loose, discarding the hair-tie behind him. "Don't forget to smile, sweetheart."

Lexa grits her teeth together, her hands balling into fists, but to her credit, she doesn't explode. He kind of feels sorry for the Serpents now, she's looking  _that_ angry. When she stumbles out in front of Bellamy, her back reads ' _SUCK_ '.

As she pushes open the doors of the gas station with her shoulder, she informs him, "Yours says Grounders, if you were wondering."

Bellamy snorts, rolling his eyes. "Very mature."

Lexa tsks, not even bothered by everyone inside the store looking at them like they're crazy and going straight for the skin care aisle. "Mature like making us buy tampons, condoms and hemorrhoid cream?"

He starts walking around the small store, trying to find where they stack their female hygiene products. They should take advantage of the fact they're alone while they can, form some kind of a game plan, or at least reign in Lexa before her mouth gets them even more in trouble. She forgets she's not just playing with her  _own_  faith. He's right there in the car with her.

Bellamy clears his throat, semi-casually loudening his voice so she can hear him, "When we go back out, we should just try and do what they say and hopefully they'll get bored and drop us off somewhere." He rolls his eyes, finding another item on their list by chance, shoving a pack of condoms into his plastic shopping basket a little too roughly. He gets "I know  _you're_  fearless, but I don't plan on dying tonight."

"I am not fearless," she admits, off-handedly, browsing through the skin care products in her fucking underwear. He's one aisle over from her, trying to find the fucking tampons and not be bothered by the fact he's in a public space in his boxer shorts and people are staring. Like, he knows he looks good, objectively speaking, but  _still_. He'd like people to look at him with his consent, not because some lunatic from Eden was threatening him with a gun. Lexa starts reading the back of a box of cream, like it's actually important what  _kind of_  cream they get. "I'm scared all the time."

"Scared of what," he bites, disbelief coating his voice as he freezes in place, staring at her over the shelves.

Lexa lifts a shoulder, indifferent, not even bothering to make eye-contact, like they're just discussing homework, or the weather. "Of being inadequate. Of not being good enough. Not living up to expectations."

"Who's? Kane's?" He snaps, but there's less heat involved this time, and he can physically feel his eyes soften against his own will.

Lexa looks up at this, brows scrunched up skeptically as she carts through the different boxes in front of her absentmindedly. Her tone isn't accusatory though, even though that's what he expected. It's calm, curious. "You never wanted to be better than me? Prove to him that he made the wrong decision? Show him he picked the wrong child."

"No, but that's because you can't long for something you never had. You know what it's like to be loved and admired by your dad, that's why you feel the weight of it," Bellamy shrugs, nonchalant, and he really means it, too. "I don't."

She shakes her head to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose before pressing her palm to her forehead, brief. Lexa sighs heavily, finally picking up a box of cream. The carton crunches under her tight grip. Her jaw clenches, and there's a look of disgust on her face, but her words don't come out as animus. "Don't you realize this exactly what Miller wanted? For us to share war stories and become buddies?"

It's easy to be angry at Lexa. Easy to blame her for what he never had. Easy to see her for one thing only, the half-sister who hates his guts and gets to live on the other side of the tracks. At one point, it just started to come naturally—the dislike he has for her. It doesn't help that she hates him, doesn't make it easy  _for him_  either, doesn't help she keeps giving Octavia  _'The Nod'_  just to piss him off. (He still isn't sure what ' _The Nod'_ exactly is, but Harper insisted it meant something dirty and that he's certainly given other girls it before.) Now sometimes he finds himself forgetting he's supposed to hate her. At times like this, when she shows the tiniest of cracks in her armor, when he's confronted by the fact he can't keep compartmentalizing her and just see her as his half-sister. She's so much more.

"Would it be so bad?" Quickly, Bellamy adds, "For the team, I mean."

She catches his gaze, and it's neutral, except for the fact she's biting down on her bottom lip. Maybe she does care. The car outside honks abruptly—breaking the moment or whatever it was between them—and he quickly grabs a random pack of tampons and follows Lexa to the cash register. Besides the cream, she's holding a sugared plum scented candle. They pay with Lexa's credit card, then get back to their hostage takers.

They drive for a while, then stop somewhere in the middle of the woods. McCreary makes them get out. "If you want your clothes back and a lift home, you have to fight for it. There can only be one winner."

"Only one?" Bellamy presses, squinting at the headlights of the car, directed straight at the two of them.

"Gladiator style, baby," McCreary smirks, clapping one of his buddies on the back.

Bellamy holds up his hands, incredulous. "We are  _not_ going to fight each—" Lexa cuts him off by punching him square in the face. She hisses in pain, shaking her hand in the air before covering her knuckles with her other hand.

He blinks at her, dumbfounded, watches a few drops of blood drip from his lip onto the ground (he guesses they're really doing this, then—so much for progress), then tackles her to the ground. When she rolls on top of him, they exchange medium-hard punches for a while until he manages to keep her away from him by pushing her shoulders back.

His fingers dig into her skin, as he seethes, low under his breath, "What the hell are you doing? We should be fighting  _them_."

"Trust me," Lexa grumbles, spitting out blood beside his head. Then she punches him, again, so he knees her in the stomach to make her roll off him. He pushes himself up, and so does she, dribbling on her feet as she walks backwards, hands up in defensive mode, until she hits the hood of the car with her ass. The Serpents have to make room for her, as she edges Bellamy on, "Come on. Hit me."

He closes more of the distance between them, making a half-hearted move that she dodges, and then he tackles her into the hood of the car, slamming her on top of it. She knees him in the groin, and he sinks down on the ground in pain while she pushes herself off the hood and quickly takes the keys out of the ignition through the rolled down window.

Lexa smirks, bold, holding up the keys in the air as she stares down the other guys (and meanwhile Bellamy struggles to get back on his feet). "Give us our clothes, and you get your keys back." She cocks an eyebrow, pleased. "Bitch."

He has to give it to her. That was pretty smart. But also, was the groin-kneeing really necessary?

Paxton gives her a blank look, safe for the way his lips curl a little at the corners. Vincent and Kodiak linger behind him, the latter at least looking  _a little_  nervous. Their poker faces are hardcore. "No deal, sweetheart."

"Fine," she boasts, shrugging and making a move as if she's going to throw the keys into the woods. "We were walking anyway."

Reluctantly, McCreary nods at Kodiak, who starts throwing random items of clothing their way, and with their gazes fixated on their hostage-takers as they get dressed. Once they're almost done, she yells, "Run!", catching them by surprise, and proceeds to throw the keys into the bushes anyway.

Bellamy follows her into the woods, and they crouch down in the bushes, observing the Serpents through the leaves. She reveals she still has the key, pulling it from her bra. "Morons. Just threw the keychain."

He snorts. "Can't believe you suckerpunched me."

"You deserved it for trying to defend my honor earlier," Lexa counters, unbothered.

He rolls his eyes, then sighs, starting to pull his sweatshirt over his head. They ran before she could get her shirt and he can see the goosebumps on her arms from three feet away. "Here."

She scoffs indignantly, but takes it anyway, pulling it over her head. She looks weird in it—not only is it too big, the front reads Polaris, an autoshop in a part of town she wouldn't be caught dead in. "We should get to the car while they're still distracted."

"What if they report it stolen?" Bellamy responds, derisively. "If we get pulled over, they can pin everything on us." Her dad might get her off the hook, but he won't allow Bellamy the same courtesy. He doesn't need to know him to know that.

"What if we sit here and talk about it all night, huh?" Lexa retaliates, patronizingly, pushing aside a bush roughly to give them a better view of the car. "You got any better ideas?"

Just to spite her, he would love to come up with a different idea. Doesn't even need to be better, just needs to set her straight, but, well, he comes to the dire conclusion he  _really_  doesn't.

"I'll drive," Bellamy relents, but she's already ahead of him. " _I'll_ drive."

"You know how to drive stick?" He asks, eyebrows raised, clicking his seatbelt in. He's pretty sure she doesn't, that's why he double-checks to see if he put it on correctly.

Lexa's fingers wrap unnaturally around the stick shift, like it's a glass of wine, and she snarls, heated, "Yes, I know how to drive stick."  _Of course_.

"You know that's not how you're supposed to—"

"Shut up, I got this."

Lexa does  _not_ know how to drive stick. Miraculously, she starts the car, somehow manages to get the engine roaring, and crashes into a fucking tree at full speed. Not only do the Serpents know  _exactly_ where they are now from the sound, they have no transportation and are seriously outnumbered.

They both stare ahead at the hood of the car now wrapped around the trunk of a tree as smoke disperses into the air. Her arms are still outstretched, hands wrapped around the steering wheel tightly. For a moment, it feels like they're frozen in time. Then, she flicks her head to get her hair away from her eyes and Bellamy unbuckles his seatbelt, chests still heaving up and down erratically from what just transpired.

From outside, not too far away, they hear a voice, "My mom's car!" which manages to kickstart other thoughts beside ' _fuck_ ' in his head.

Bellamy shifts his head towards Lexa at the same time as she does. "Bail?"

"Bail," she agrees, taking of her seatbelt and literally kicking open the door to get out of the car. McCreary is close to them now, yelling about how he is going to ' _make some Grounder meat_ ' which is… He tried? Bellamy pulls on his door, keeps pulling, but it won't budge, probably because of the hit they just took. McCreary starts pulling on the other side, appearing in front of the window.

He can't really tell where Lexa is, probably long gone by now. For a moment, he thinks this is the moment where he dies. In the woods, alone. Then deciding, hell no, Bellamy quickly scrambles over towards the driver's seat. Meanwhile McCreary understands his plan and starts to move around the car to get there as well. Bellamy opens the door, and McCreary is literally a hair away from grabbing him by the collar of his shirt when Lexa appears out of nowhere and headbuds him straight on.

She winces, pressing a hand to her forehead, but Bellamy notices Kodiak coming from their left out of the corner of his eye, and he can hear Vincent nearby, so he is already pulling her away from the car and further into the woods.

"That was a pretty smart move. With the keys," he finally admits as they crouch down back behind the bushes, leaning back on a tree. His lip is throbbing, and there's still dried up blood under his nose he's sure. There's a purple bruise on Lexa's cheekbone, a big unnaturally red spot on her forehead, her usually carefully styled hair is messy on top of her head.

"Doesn't change the fact my dad is going to kill me for getting yellow tonight," she counters, still panting as she mirrors his position, head rolling over the bark to look at him. A vacant look falls over her eyes, but under the surface there's more it seems. Another crack, another small crack in her steel armor. "You should consider yourself lucky sometimes. "

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he pushes some hair back from his face. "Lucking out of a dad?"

"At least this one," she grants, genuine, then drops forward on her knees, pushing aside some branches, taking a look at the road they started their journey on earlier that night. In the distance, they see two headlights. "I'm tired of waiting for them to find us."

He frowns, not sure what the hell she's thinking of but it seems like something stupid. Those guys are still out there. "Well, I'm not tired of living just yet."

"Come on, we can take them," Lexa announces, certain, and before he can protest, she's already stepping out of hiding and running onto the road. The first two seconds, he tells himself he's not going to do it. He's going to stay here and not get dragged into her stupid pla. Then, he thinks of three guys ganging up on her while he stands idly by. Cursing to himself, he joins her, coming to a halt beside her. At least two to three is more fair than three to one.

Lexa gets into a fighting stance, muttering, "Brace yourself."

The car screeches as it comes to an abrupt stop. When the door opens and someone steps out in front of the headlights, it's clear it's not who they think it is.

"What the hell?" Octavia asks them as Clarke pops open the door beside them, surprise covering their faces. He had no clue his little sister was now friends with his sworn enemy's girlfriend who he also happens to have a small crush on. He's not even sure how he reached this point in life.

"Likewise," he mumbles, taking a step further away from Lexa, just for good measure. He can't have people thinking he can actually stand her now.

Raven—a member of the Grounders currently on leave because of a knee injury—is in the back, fast asleep. "Painkillers," Clarke explains, as she shoves the passenger seat forward to let them slip into the back of Raven's maroon-colored two-door muscle-car.

Lexa kisses her girlfriend on the cheek, who strangely stiffens at her touch, and then she ducks in first, picks to sit with Raven's feet in her lap. Which means her face ends up in Bellamy's lap. He barely knows the girl, so to say it's awkward covers the least of it. At least she's in some sort of drugs-induced coma and barely moves, which he's not even sure makes it better.

The car ride home was mostly silent, except for the speakers connected to Octavia's iPhone playing mostly rock songs from the seventies. Lexa stares out of the window the entire time, and he only catches Clarke's gaze in the rearview mirror once. Octavia silently mumbles along to the music the entire twenty-minute ride back to Arkadia.

It's easy to think that the Coach's plan might have actually worked. Lexa opened up to him, they did some bonding, spoke about their feelings, bla bla bla. Yet, he would bet money on the fact that when they get to school on Monday, everything's going to be exactly the same. He can't say he minds.

Their next game, Raven Reyes makes her comeback after a two month long knee injury. He knows her from the auto shop, where she also works, but their shifts rarely lined up and he's never actually talked that much to her. He never made much of an effort, just always kind of figured she was Lexa's already. She was a Grounder, and the Grounders were Lexa's. If they were keeping a tally book, Grounders would be right under Lexa's name. Or it used to be.

She's on the bench for most of the game, because Coach Miller wants to ease her back in, but she gets to play the last ten minutes with a brace on. Raven is an attacking midfielder, and a good one at that, so they spend most of those minutes very close to each other.

"Hey," she announces out of nowhere, taking quick breaths in between words as she dribbles the ball closer to the goal. It takes him a second to realize she's talking to him. "I meant to thank you. For letting me sleep on your lap. The other week."

"No problem," Bellamy replies, just slightly out of breath, earning a weird look from a Bull from Exodus Academy currently trying to intercept the ball from Raven. She spins smoothly when he gets too close, blocking him with her back as she shoots the ball towards Bellamy. He smirks, throwing a, "Your hair smelt nice," over his shoulder before closing the last few dozen feet between him and the goal.

He scores. The referee whistles. They win the game.

The cheerleaders run onto the field, and Octavia jumps into his arms, shouting ' _Grounders'_  over and over again like she's doing it just to heckle the Bulls. When he spins her around and then comes to a halt, he catches Lexa staring at them. He puts Octavia down, wrapping his arm around her shoulder as he purposely turns their backs towards his captain.

Coach Miller quickly debriefs the game with them, then dismisses them to go take a much-needed shower and change. Before he can get there though, someone grabs him by the shoulder.

"Hey," it's Raven again, giving him a small nod. Her long brown hair is up in a high ponytail, but some of the baby hairs are plastered to her neck and temples, bronze skin covered by a tiny layer of sweat. "You should come to the after-party."

"Maybe I will," Bellamy hears himself say, surprising even himself. Whatever. Raven is cute, and it's been a while.

Her smile widens. "See you there." Then she disappears into the girls' locker room.

Octavia goes to  _every_  party, so he drives there with her.

"It might be good for you," she reasons on the way there, beat-up converse propped up on the dashboard. "Bond with the team and all."

"Yeah," Bellamy agrees, cynical. "Up until now they've only ignored my entire existence, trashed my uniform, and threatened me with bodily harm. It can only go up from here."

He pulls up in front of the Kane's Lakehouse. Octavia grimaces, as she looks at him over the roof of his car once they get out. "I should warn you—Lexa's parties aren't really like they are in the movies."

He shoves her as they meet at the front of his car. "I've been to a party before, O, Jesus."

"Bellamy, don't be a dick challenge," she comments, sticking out her tongue at him as they climb up the porch. When they get inside, his sister immediately disappears into the crowd to get herself a drink and he's left to fend for himself.

Octavia really wasn't kidding. Apparently, a party in Lexa's world means impromptu poetry slams, a 30 seconds tournament and the sharing of a bottle of red wine. Fucking elitists.

Bellamy wanders around the house for a while, browses through the vinyl collection next to the record player, surveys their happy family pictures on the wall—they're all professionally taken, not a hair out of place—and eyes the countless soccer awards on top of the fire mantel, some of them Lexa's, most of them Kane's. He gets dragged into a signing an online petition about sustainable agriculture after listening to a rant from a soft-spoken, even softer smiling Asian dude for fifteen minutes. Next, he raids the cheese platter next to the couch, because post-games he's always starving and apparently most of the other snacks are vegan and gluten-free (which doesn't sound like they carry much nutrients). He ends up talking to Raven for a while after she hands him a beer, makes some bad attempts at flirting with her, and they discuss dream cars. She shames him for picking a rover even though he doesn't live in a jungle. Raven aggressively only calls him by his last name and is smart, fierce, absolutely beautiful.

Eventually he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The brunette smirks, fingering the collar of his shirt and—dare he say suggestively—telling him, "Don't take too long, okay?" She might really be coming onto him, which is great, but he also has to take a desperate piss. There's a fifteen minute line, and when he's done, Raven is nowhere to be found. Just his luck.

He does, however—because how can he not—bump into Lexa when he goes to get himself a new beer. Her cheeks are pink, probably from all the red wine. She snorts, the first time he's made her make a positive sound in his life. "You here to capsize my house as well?"

Not taking her too seriously, he quips, "With you in it? Sounds like a plan."

"After my team and my girlfriend? I wouldn't put it passed you."

"Nice," Bellamy hisses, sarcastic, slamming the fridge closed loudly—she only has Old Chub. Even the beer is fucking pretentious. "Again, I never intended to take anyone's place but I'm getting really tired of having to apologize for it."

He knew this whole armistice wouldn't be long term. Her fingers tighten around her glass of wine, eyes hooded and dark as she glares at him, "I cannot wait to show everyone who you really are."

He wants to yell at her, but instead takes a deep, calming breath, before inquiring, cynically, "And what might that be?"

"An imposter," Lexa reveals matter-of-factly, putting the glass to her lips and tipping her head back.

He just can't ever fucking win with her. He holds up his hand in lieu of punching a hole in her wooden ' _home is where the heart is_ ' bread plank. He snatches a half-empty beer bottle of the counter anyway. "I need some air."

"Don't choke on it," Lexa counters, snide, opening the fridge to get out a bottle of wine, and she's definitely drunk, because she lamely adds, "Or do."

He stalks off, finds the entrance to the deck behind the house and decides some fresh air might be best. The vague beat of some French song plays in the background— _moi je crois aux histoires qui peuvent parfois bien se terminer, mais tu voudrais qu'elle soit ta reine ce soir_ —muffled by the glass doors when he closes them behind them.

Bellamy uses his forearms to lean forward on the balustrade, ducking his head so he can try and focus on his breathing, try and focus on not feeling so angry all the time. He just doesn't fit in here, with these people, with his team. He never will. He doesn't know how Raven does it. When he straightens back up and looks out at the lake, someone clears their throat behind him.

His head snaps to look over his shoulder, finding Clarke curled up on a deckchair in the corner, a big fluffy blanket covering her shoulders. Her hair is up, messily held together by a pencil, a sketchbook on her lap. Her fingers are stained with charcoal. There's two empty beer bottles down on the floor beside her socked feet. He turns completely so he's leaning back onto the balustrade instead, lifting his eyebrows as he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. "What are you doing out here?"

She shifts, pulling her knees up to her chest as she puts her sketchbook down on the side table beside her. "I needed a break. You?"

"Same," Bellamy sighs, then because it's Clarke, "Your girlfriend wasn't too happy to see me. Said I was stealing her life. Her game." Her girlfriend. He thinks it's best not to mention that part.

"I talked her into letting you come," Clarke explains, picking at the chipped white paint on the armrest casually. "Which might be why she is so pissed off. She's always talking about picking sides." She chuckles, half-hearted, " _Loyalty_."

"Look at this," Bellamy blurts out, throwing up his hands. "She has a house. Looking out at a lake. And they don't even live here! They just come here to throw a party when they feel like it." He shakes his head, nostrils flaring as he clenches his jaw. "Me and my family? We can barely scrape together enough money for the rent of our two-bedroom crappy old house."

Clarke cocks an eyebrow. "If I apologize on all of our behalves—the cheerleaders, the quarterbacks, the lake house owners—does that make me a revolutionary or just a condescending asshole?"

He cracks a smile despite himself. "Both, probably."

She mirrors his grin, and then silence stretches between them like the sword of damocles, like any moment the lingering tension between them could snap in half.

Tentatively, Bellamy pushes himself off the balustrade and sits down on the foot end of the deckchair beside Clarke's. He blinks at the side of her face; the gentle slope of her nose, the beauty mark above her lips, the lips, how pink they are. He shakes his head to himself, slightly, looking away. "Why are you even one of them? A cheerleader, I mean?" She didn't really seem like the type.

Clarke shrugs at first, then turns her head to meet his gaze. "It's just something—I don't know," she pauses, biting down on her bottom lip as she shrugs again. "My mom used to be one, would be my first answer."

He looks at her, expectant, eyebrows raised. "And your second?"

"My dad used to come to all my competitions and pep-rallies in middle school, carrying around the same exact pompoms as my squad, cheering me on. He'd write my name on his cheeks with face paint," she smiles, faint, at the memory, wringing her hands together in her lap. "For some dumb reason, it makes me feel closer to him."

"No, I get it," Bellamy counters, genuine, reaching out to cover her knee with his hand supportively. "Every time you put on the uniform, you don't have to think of the hurt. You get to be that person again, the one you were with your dad. Before—you get to feel that way again, escape."

Her eyes glaze over, corners of her lips turned up shakily. She opens her mouth, then closes it. His phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the moment and he fishes it out quickly.

**Octademon [01:34 AM]**

> _sorry 2 bail, but couldnt find u & have a serious headache. friend is dropping me off. will text when home x_

"What's up with the frown?" Out of the corner of his eyes he can see her quickly dab at her eyes and he decides to go along with her obvious change of subject.

"It's my sister," he sighs, stretching his legs so he can stow his phone away again.

Clarke picks up her beer from the side table and presses the bottle to her lips, taking a sip. She offers it to him and he takes a swig, while a grin spreads across her face. "Did Lexa text you the directions to your house?"

He chokes on the beverage, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he forces down a cough. "I meant Octavia."

"Right," she concludes, sarcasm coating her voice, as she picks at the label on the bottle. It slides off easily, damp from the condensation. "My apologies. Didn't realize we were still ignoring the fact you two are related."

He gives her a pointed look. He doesn't even like to think about it, let alone discuss it with Lexa's girlfriend.

"You're really talented," he says, nodding over to her sketchbook, obviously changing the subject now as well. It evens their score, so he thinks he's allowed. "Ever think about doing something with these? Your art."

"No," Clarke answers immediately, like that's just something set in stone. Then chuckles, cynical. "You're the only one who calls them art actually. My mom calls them a distraction. Lexa calls them dreams." She looks back out at the lake, shoulders stiff. "Maybe they are."

Something a lot like bitterness coats her voice, so he has to check, even if it is awkward. "You and her okay?"

"Yeah, it's just—" She breaks off, then looks back at him, searching his face. She must find what she is looking for, because she starts back up again. "I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason we are together is because we don't know any better, if it's just because we have history together. If—if we're both just holding on to something that used to be great, hoping that someday it'll be again." She shakes her head to herself, like suddenly she realizes how ridiculous it is that she's telling him this, picking up her work and swinging her legs of the chair. "Sorry, I think I drank a little too much."

Clarke smiles, but again it doesn't reach her eyes. She worries her lip, a quiet moment passing between the two of them, then she reaches for her notebook, saying, "I should get back inside."

Bellamy nods. She squeezes his shoulder in passing, then he listens to the doors opening— _sentiments égarés, on sourit pour ne pas pleurer_ —and eventually sliding shut. For a second there, hearing her talk about Lexa like that, it made him feel good. Which isn't fair to Clarke, or his—his  _sister._  Groaning, he falls back into the deckchair—he's such a fucking asshole.

Apparently, Lexa's crash into the tree wasn't a once-off, because the next day when he gets into work, Clarke's car is back at the shop. Lexa allegedly forgot to put on the parking brake while parking on the steep driveway at the lakehouse and the car rear-ended into a power box down the road. At least now he knows sucking at driving isn't a genetic thing.

He orders a new bumper cover for the car, and when he goes to put the invoice underneath the windscreen wiper so Sinclair doesn't do the same when he gets in for his shift, something on the passenger seat catches his eyes. It's something silver and shiny, and when goes around the car to get a better look, he realizes it's a charm bracelet. Octavia's bracelet. He recognizes it because she never takes it off, and half the charms on there he bought himself. Including the glow in the dark butterfly charm he had to have shipped from China five months before her tenth birthday.

He remembers Octavia's text.  _Friend is dropping me off_. At the time, he figured she meant Jasper—the guy who records podcasts about their soccer games on the reg even though he only has three listeners—or maybe even that nice looking Asian guy. Clarke was with him at the time, so it couldn't have been her. Lexa crashed the car after, which couldn't have been that long after Octavia went home. So who used the car in the meantime? Who dropped her off? Not… Not Lexa, right?

Right? His stomach twists, feeling like he just stepped into some alternative reality, his mouth tasting like metal from biting on his cheek so hard to remind him this is real. This is happening. He reaches through the car window, prying it out of the seat and storing it in his locker. Octavia was Lexa's worst critic, or at least she always had been. Would Octavia really consider Lexa a friend? Would she lie about it to him? He doesn't know what to believe anymore.

Part of him is scared to confront his sister about it, a different part is in denial despite logically knowing better and another part just tries to forget it all together. If he doesn't think about it, it's not too bad, right?

Then, during conditioning practice inside the school gym, Lexa smiles over at his sister—his  _actual_ sister—off to the side in the middle of a seated straddle, stretching her legs, and he just fucking snaps.

He grabs her by the shoulder, stopping her in the middle of bouncing a soccer ball on her knee and pulling her aside. Her friend and training buddy Anya gives him the stink-eye, grunts, "Hey asshole, we're in the middle of a drill here," but he couldn't care less, turning his back on her and blocking Lexa from her view.

He narrows his eyes, squares his shoulders. "Whatever you're doing with Octavia, stay away."

"We're just talking," she replies, unbothered, tightening her low ponytail. Then something dark twists over her eyes, voice silky smooth. "Like you and Clarke."

His jaw clenches as his fingers curl into fists at his sides. So  _that's_  the angle. She's obviously using his sister to get back at him for… for what? He was  _just_  talking to Clarke, nothing more, nothing less. Lexa just proved that it wasn't the same between her and Octavia, even if they were talking that wasn't her only motive. She's just using her, and it boils his blood to an unprecedented temperature.

Bellamy forces his voice to remain calm, as he informs her, "I know what you're trying to do here, and I'm assuring you it's not going to work. I'm telling you, this is your final warning. Stay the hell away from my sister." With that, he turns on his heels, stalking back over to Miller to finish up the back half of their jumping jacks and preferably never think of this whole ordeal ever again.

Then, he's hit in the back by a soccer ball at full force. Which, by the way, fucking  _hurts_.

"Hey!" She yells, roaring, starting to close the distance between the two of them again with long, determinant strides. All that's missing is Joan Jett's bad reputation blasting over the gym speakers. It catches the attention of everyone, including the cheerleading squad. He catches Miller's gaze, hands on his hips and eyes widening in that ' _don't do it, bro_ ' way that Bellamy can't in all good conscience take in account right now. "You don't tell me what to do, Blake."

He picks up the ball and starts to do the same, hoping to meet her in the middle and give her a piece of his mind. "You lost your damn mind—"

"Stop it!" Coach Miller barks, pulling Bellamy back by the arm as he keeps Lexa at a distance by blocking her at the shoulder. Bellamy's never seen Nate's dad so pissed off. "What the hell is wrong with the two of you? You're on the same team here."

Lexa takes a step back, straightening her black Nike tank top, as Bellamy pulls his arm lose, still too hyped up with adrenaline to care about who he's directing his anger at. Coach Miller stares the both of them down, moving his gaze from one to the other, waiting for an explanation. When he doesn't get one, he continues, eyes lingering on Lexa, "For God's sake, he's your  _brother_  —"

"Half," they both snap back through gritted teeth at the same time. It only makes Coach shake his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You're both not leaving this court until you've done a 100 suicide runs." He speaks up, louder, addressing the team, "The rest of you are dismissed."

It's a long, sweaty, soul-crushing afternoon, and that's just the part where he actively has to ignore Lexa for hours while she's right there on the court beside him, trying to out-run him. He's not sure why she always wants to make a competition out of it, but he sure as hell won't say no to an opportunity to kick her ass at something. When they're done, they're both completely broken.

His mom lets him sleep through dinner, then eventually wakes him up before she leaves for her shift at the hospital, telling him she put his plate in the microwave. When he gets downstairs, he finds Octavia sitting at the kitchen table in the dim under-cabinet lighting, typing on her laptop.

He doesn't say anything, pressing the on-button on the microwave and blinking at the time, 11:07 PM. Bellamy gets himself a glass of water, sitting down across from his sister in lieu of standing there like an idiot. There's just the sound of the keyboard clicking under her fingertips and the humming of his food being heated up. Eventually, when he can't take the silence anymore, he budges—because he always budges—voice still hoarse from sleep, "Why are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep," she admits, sullenly, without looking up from her laptop, finger moving over her mousepad. She pushes the buttons a little harder than necessary. "Kept thinking about how my brother is an asshole who can't mind his own business."

"You're the one who hasn't been honest with me, O," he hisses, shoving the glass away from himself, some water sloshing over the edge. "You couldn't have given me a heads-up about the fact you're spending one-on-one time with satan in a black turtleneck?"

She slams her computer shut, green eyes burning with rage as she glares at him. "If you must know, I've been helping her. In return, she promised to stop the hazing, leave you alone." Octavia slaps her hands on top of the table, so hard it shakes the table. "I did it for  _you_."

He frowns, swallowing tightly. "Helping her  _how_?" What could a barely-getting by sophomore have to offer a junior on honor roll? The strangest sort of favors running through his head right about now.

"Her debate teacher failed her because he didn't find her expressive enough, thought she won most of her debates just because she intimidated her opponents. She refused to partner up, I don't know—" Octavia sighs, aggravated, pressing the pads of palm to her eyelids. Then she shakes her head, continuing, air quoting, "She was allowed to join the drama club for extra credit and develop her ' _community-building skills_ ' such as ' _cooperation_ ' and ' _patience'_ , but honestly, she's been bombing in front of our drama teacher." She winces at a memory Bellamy doesn't share with her. "Since I'm the unofficial president, she came to me for help."

Octavia joined the drama club freshman year to be closer to her filmmaker friends, including Jasper, and because dramatics ran in the Blake family. They spent most of the year smoking weed and using drama club as an excuse to get out of class activities, but put on a relatively okay production in fall and a horrible off-key musical in spring.

It was mostly improv to be honest, but pretty entertaining if you ignored the hastily thrown together halloween costumes and recycled stage sets. Octavia was a good actress at least, and talented at drawing a crowd, like she was good at anything she put her mind to. She even convinced teachers they put a lot of time and effort in the productions, hence why the school acknowledged the drama club as an official extracurricular activity.

Which is why he knows this is all deliberately planned on Lexa's part. No way in fresh hell would she ever join a drama club voluntarily, especially not one so unorganized and hectic as their school's. The Lexa he knows would have just made her father threaten her debate teacher until he lets her pass the class.

"What a happy coincidence," Bellamy bites, sarcastic.

Her eyes soften, even if her jaw is still clenched. "Maybe not but—"

He cuts her off, because all he can hear is warning signs going off in his head, like a siren wailing loudly. "Please tell me you're not actually _into_ her—"

"There is  _nothing_ between us!" Octavia responds, pushing her chair back from the table, it's legs scratching loudly over their floor. "And even if it was, this is my life, Bellamy. I don't need you to make my decisions for me."

He follows her lead, getting up on his feet as his hand hovers in the air. His sister is so frustrating. Can she literally not see what is right in front of her? "Lexa has nothing but bad intentions and we both know it. She's only using you to get at me."

"It's not like that. _She's_  not like that," Octavia growls in response, shoving at her chair for good measure. "But I'm glad you think it's so impossible that someone could like me for me, despite being the adopted freak sister living in her big brother's shadow."

He closes his eyes, irritated, just now realizing how that sounds. "O, I'm sorry. That's not... I just meant that you… Just be careful."

It's already too late, he can tell by the venomous expression on her face she's made up her mind about what he meant. She opens her mouth, undoubtedly to rip him a new one, but then the microwave dings, signaling his food is done and the conversation is probably over. Bitingly, before she storms off upstairs, she throws him a, "Enjoy your damn dinner."

Never let them see you bleed, that's what he forgot. By yelling at Lexa about Octavia he revealed how much he cared about the fact, and offered her his weakness on a silver platter, ready for her to exploit. It was really his own damn fault.

On game day, right before first kick-off, Lexa purposely waves over at Octavia—who's still ignoring him—standing on the sidelines with the cheer squad. He follows her line of sight to watch Octavia wave back, positively beaming, and when he turns back to Lexa, she's smirking at him.

The referee whistles, and he's so distracted by what just happens, Lexa manages to pass him by and intercept the ball from their opponent. When she scores, all he can focus on in eruption of celebratory noises are his sister's loud cheers.

He's a mess, after that—tripping over the ball, giving away the victories to his one-on-one duels, aiming the ball anywhere but at the goal, earns their opponent two direct free kicks—it's horrible.

It goes so far, eventually Coach Miller benches him. He claps him on the back sympathetically, telling him everyone has their off-days. He brings in Dax to cover for Raven, while he pushes her up in the formation as a second striker and has Lexa return as a centre forward. Which is exactly what she's wanted all along. She has him right where she wants to, and he fell for it, like an idiot.

After the game, he passes Clarke and Lexa at the water station, exchanging heated words with hushed voices and darkened eyes. Guess he isn't the only one bothered by the captain's advances on his sister.

A few blocks from Polaris, there's one of Arkadia's busiest intersections which he usually passes on his way to work. It's a little after twelve on the Monday after that shitshow of a game. He's on his way home late, after working overtime to lessen the workload for the guys tomorrow and closing the shop (because it's not like he has anything better to do, plus he could use the extra hours), the streets are mostly abandoned—just a free stray cars here and there, people walking their dogs.

When he gets to the intersection and stops in front of a red light, he immediately notices Clarke's car on his right. He'd recognize that car anywhere. Her traffic light is green, but the car's not moving. Something doesn't make sense. He turns down his radio, cutting off Lorde's Liability, like somehow that'll give him better vision.

His own light jumps to green, hers to red, and like a maniac, she speeds out onto the intersection. Bellamy can now with certainty confirm it's actually her in the car. He watches in shock, remembering her story about her dad in a flash, how he died running a red light.

Her brakes screech as she stops on his left. She makes a U-turn, again stopping in front of the traffic lights. Once more, she waits for the light to turn red before taking off at full speed. A truck across from him honks as he misses Clarke by a hair. What the hell is she doing? He haphazardly parks his car somewhere on the bike lane, quickly sprinting over to her Mercury Comet just as it pulls up on the right side again.

Bellamy bangs on her window with flat palms, and she startles, shifting her head to look at him. Through the glass, he can make out the redness of her eyes, the distanced emptiness in them, her tear streaked cheeks. His mind flashes back to their last practice, how he and the rest of the team heard her yell at their cheer captain about the irrelevance of cheerleading, how none of it mattered. Loudly, he asks, "Clarke, what the hell are you doing?"

"Just leave," she responds, looking straight back ahead, voice sounding muffled through the window. The engine revs, maybe as a sign she's getting tired of waiting. He knows he doesn't have much more time before the light jumps to red again and she might actually get hurt. Quickly, he moves to the front of her car, slamming his hands down on top of the hood, like he'll actually be able to stop her if she decides to put the pedal to the metal.

Her window rolls down a bit, and angrily she bites, her jaw flexing, "Bellamy, just get away." Her voice sounds hoarse, rough, like maybe she's been using it too much the last couple of hours. Crying, screaming, who knows.

"No," he protests, and this time when the engine revs, she actually moves forward a couple of inches. She's calling his bluff. Knowing Clarke, she might actually pull through, so he waits for the light to turn green, then pulls open her door and jumps into the passenger side of the car at lightning speed.

"Bellamy, just get out—" she argues, leaning over to try and opens his door for him, but he swats her arm away, putting his seatbelt on.

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm letting you do this alone," he establishes, firm. He's hoping risking his life cancels out her need to risk her own, but still. If she's doing this, so is he. "Besides, if you're taking time off from school, so am I."

"Shut up," she breathes, shakily, hands trembling as she puts them back on the wheel. She shakes her head lightly to herself, closing her eyes briefly. "Just— _shut_  up and get out."

"Hey, if I don't have your legs to look at during games then what's the point of even playing soccer?" Bellamy teases, hoping to ease the tension a bit, but her face doesn't budge. Softer, he pushes, "Clarke, what are you doing?"

"Get out," she orders, harshly, then tears spring from her eyes, and her voice wavers as she begs, "Please just get out of the car."

"I can't," he admits, quiet, and she finally turns her head to look at him, eyes full of unshed tears and almost an azure blue, but that might just be how he remembers it later. When she realizes he's serious, she exhales shakily, tilting her head slightly like she's pleading one final time for him to just get out. Then she turns her head back to look at the traffic lights.

"I just turned seventeen," Clarke smiles, faint, like it's just a habit, like it's expected, a stray tear rolling down her cheek slowly. Staring absently at her hands on the wheel, knuckles white from the force of her grip on it, she mutters lowly, "It was because of me." Her vacant blue eyes dart around, look everywhere and nowhere, and he wants to tell her something, anything. To help her, support her, change her mind.

"One red light,  _one_ ," she snaps, raspy, hitting the steering wheel with a flat hand. "I ran through them so many times—" She hits it again. "It's not fucking fair!" And again, and again, until her palms are an angry red and all he can do is take her hand in his and pull her into his side, wrapping his arms around her trembling frame as she sobs.

He doesn't know how long they sit there; red and greens highlighting their skin alternatingly, other cars passing them, moon rising in the sky. Eventually the sobs subdue, her labored breathing calms, and her grip on his shirt loosens.

"It's not your fault, you know that right?" He brushes a hand over her hair, the messy braid she's put it in, cold nose pressed into the crook of his neck as she adjusts her head, probably to get a better view of his face. "Sometimes shit just happens."

Clarke doesn't say anything and instead pulls back from him, straightening her oversized, threadbare sweater which must be her dad's, considering the state it's in. She searches his face, blues soft and tender, then settles on, "Thanks." She reaches up with her thumb and forefinger to wipe at her eyes quickly, shifting back completely into her own seat, leaning her head back onto the headrest.

"Well, happy birthday," he deadpans, dry, and she laughs shakily, through the tears, watery smile on her face despite herself. She turns her head to look at him and he reaches out, tucks some hair behind her ear. "If this is your definition of a party, princess, then I don't think you really know how to have fun."

"I'll have you know I'm a pro at Quarters," she argues, weak, but he's glad to see some of the life back in her eyes. He chuckles, and then it's quiet for a while—a comfortable kind of silence, stretching over them like letting out a held breath—until a car pulls by them, blaring their horn and shouting unrepeatable insults their way.

They share another laugh before they part ways—only  _after_ she promises to go straight home—but a few days after, she finds him at school, walking up to him at his locker.

"Hi," Clarke breathes, worrying her bottom lip as she toys with the strap of her backpack. She looks better; her face clearer, blue eyes present, wavy hair up in a messy bun but in that messy way girls want it look like, wearing her cheerleading uniform because it's game day. So at least she didn't rage quit.

"Hey," Bellamy greets, unzipping his bag to take out his books and exchange them for different ones. He checks quickly, to see if no one is listening, then lowers his voice, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—wanted to apologize. For threatening you with a hit and run last night," she starts off, then quickly continues when she sees him about to protest, "And  _thank_  you." The sentence lingers on, like she might've wanted to include a reason for her gratitude at first, but wasn't quite sure what to say.

"No problem," he offers, hoisting his backpack back up his shoulder as he closes his locker. He pushes the sleeves off his light-blue button-up (the only parts he hates about Game days, the fucking formal wear) further up his arm, and then finds her gaze. He doesn't quite know how to explain it, the unspoken thing between them, the thing that keeps drawing him to her, how it has him revealing shit to her he won't even admit to himself—so he doesn't.

"Well, because for once you weren't an asshole," she teases, causing him to roll his eyes, as she pulls something from her bag, presenting it to him, "I decided to reward you."

Bellamy takes the paper from her, folding it open to reveal a drawing of him and Octavia. They're both wearing their uniforms, both of Octavia's arm swung around his neck, cheeks pressed together. It's most likely something that's happened during some game before, a moment he doesn't quite remember but knows happened anyway. It's beautiful, detailed, evokes a warm, fuzzy feeling.

(He's also strangely touched she memorized his face enough to draw it from memory. Or social media, he remembers. The yearbook. Whatever. A guy can dream.)

"Wow," he breathes, the first thing coming to mind. No one's ever actually given him something so thoughtful. No one's ever actually given him _anything_ , now he thinks about it. He hates celebrating his birthday and unless you count his friends not roasting him for a day because they're in the christmas spirit, that brings the count pretty much to his mom buying him new underwear and socks. Still, it isn't anything like she just gave him.

Sheepishly, cheeks pink, she asks, "You like it?"

"Of course," he insists, and in any normal situation, if this was Miller or Monroe, he would hug her. But he's not sure they're quite there yet; at the casual hugging stage. Are they friends? Friends with bearing the load of their emotional baggage-benefits?

Joking, probably to lighten the mood a little, she cuts in, "I would've made you a mixtape but then I remembered it's not 2002."

"So you drew me a picture, kindergarten style?" He turns it around, pretends to look for something. "Where's the ' _do you like me, yes or yes_ '?"

Clarke tries hard not to smile, even almost succeeds. "Look, here," she retaliates, lowering his hand so she can point somewhere random. Dryly, "It says right there that it's never going to happen."

Bellamy feigns shock, deadpanning, "Sick burn." He re-opens his locker, takes down a flyer from some school event he put up there, and uses the magnet to hang up the drawing. He straightens it out a little, then announces, "There."

As if on cue, Lexa and her crew turn around the corner, like it's a deleted scene from those vampire movies Octavia always made him watch. It's not like he anticipates an hello, but he at least expects a glare directed his way while she nods at Clarke, instead Lexa briefly looks over at them, so they  _know_  she saw them, proceeds to ignore them completely and marches on without even so much as a second glance.

"Damn." He tsks, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. He deals with it like he deals with most problems in his life, being petty for no good damn reason. "Did you say her favorite candle reeks or something?"

Clarke winces, then clears her throat awkwardly. "Me and Lexa, uhm. We broke up."

"Oh," he says, and fuck. Is it bad that he kind of feels relieved, and a tiny bit elated too? He doesn't quite know how to process this information so all of a sudden. After an awkward beat of nothing, he adds, "I'm sorry to hear that." Even to him it sounds insincere.

"Ever thought about joining the drama club?" She notes sarcastically, eyebrow cocked, then smiles. The bell rings, and they have AP History together, so they start walking down the hallway. "It's okay, really. It's been a long time coming now." Clarke reaches up to press her thumb and forefinger into her eye sockets briefly, sighing. "Soccer will  _always_  come first to her, and I accepted that, for the longest time, I would still, even. If she was still there for me when it mattered most."

"Your…" He doesn't finish his sentence, but the 'dad' part is heavily implied.

"Yeah," Clarke breathes, heavy sigh in her voice. "Among other things. She told me to separate my personal life from my academic life. She wasn't happy that I yelled at Fox the other day about the triviality of cheerleading. In other words, I should shut up during practice and just stand there and look pretty."

He finally settles on a, "Yikes." Bellamy doesn't want to push it, so he swallows most of his insults. They might have broken up, but she was with Lexa for the longest time. Probably still loves her.

They stop in front of their classroom, both not wanting to go inside yet and break off the conversation. More to herself, she adds, fidgeting, "Anyway, I should've known when she told me love was weakness."

Bellamy doesn't quite know what to say to that. If Lexa thinks love is weakness, if that's what she—it would make a lot of sense, that's all. So instead, he ends up taking a lighter route, referring to her captain, "In your defense, Ontari does threat cheerleading like it's brain surgery."

She grins, glad for the change of subject as she crosses her arms over her chest. "Last week she proposed  _poisoning_ the cheer captain of the Miners. I'm not talking about giving her the shits for a few days—she meant actual murder. Killing a person, because she wants the first place trophy at the next cheer competition."

"Cheer or die, I guess," Bellamy offers, and she knocks her shoulder into his playfully as they both turn towards the classroom, staring at the entrance like they still don't quite want to leave, break the comfortable bubble they're in.

The second bell rings, and she takes a step forward, but then turns on her heel, reaching out to squeeze his hand, brief, small grin on her lips. "Thanks again." Then she quickly goes inside, sitting down at her seat, a few desks ahead and across from his.

Miller just looks at him, judgemental when he slouches down in his seat beside him. "What?"

"You have a deathwish or something?"

"We're just talking," Bellamy replies, low under his breath, as they watch Mr. Pike walk into the classroom and write down something on their blackboard.

"Whatever creams your twinkie, dude." Nate opens his book, leaning forward on his elbows as he adjusts in his seat. "Just don't ever include me in your Big Love perils, okay?"

Bellamy elbows him. "No fucking sweat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell at me, prompt me or discuss whether lucas scott ever even deserved any rights to begin with (be honest).


	2. when we collide we come together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back and doing worser than ever! i know thats not a word but im not english so you can't call me out on it. n*rsing school is kicking my ass but luckily i wrote most of this already and only had to edit it a bit.
> 
> (btw i am a lil suspicion nobody called me out on this but last chap i forgot to mention i recasted bellamy’s mom because kane is his dad and obviously isnt filipino . in my mind she looks like lara quigaman-alcaraz or kaye abad (keep in mind she was a teen mom), but you all can feel free to imagine whoever you want.)
> 
> so this is nice and super dramatic so hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
> song in chapter is from billy clyro

That weekend, Kane invites over the team and all of their parents for an annual event held at his house. He calls it a barbeque, but they only serve fancy stuff, like gambas and lobster, and they have to dress up in formal wear.

Bellamy's mom comes, despite the ugly history with the Kanes, because she's badass. "We should decide on a signal, in case one of us wants to leave."

"Sure," he snorts, taking her hand as he helps her over the patch of grass leading to the driveway. She's wearing heels, but somehow her chin still only barely reaches his shoulder.

"Coo?" She offers, actually coo-ing like a pigeon as they pull to a stop in front of the Kane mansion. He can feel the dread radiate off the both of them, but his mom isn't a quitter, and she didn't raise one either.

Bellamy blinks up at big windows, the broad porch, the fancy security system and the perfectly sculpted bushes. He tsks. "How about—'Bellamy, I'd like to leave'?"

His mom laughs, warm and familiar, squeezing his hand. "Deal."

The suit he's wearing is itchy, and a little tight on his shoulders, being a few years old. The last time he wore it was to some distant uncle's funeral when he was fifteen. Bellamy never had any fancy events to go to, so he figured it wasn't really necessary to buy a new one when they barely got by as it was. Earlier, while he put it on, Octavia dropped a bomb on him. She was finally, but reluctantly, talking to him again.

He was in his room, multitasking getting dressed and listening to some playlist Monroe had send over to him. Buttoning up his shirt, she came in, laying down on top of his bed as she typed away on her phone. "Can you braid my hair?"

Careful not to sound too eager, he replied, after a beat, "Sure."

Finishing up the last button, he sunk down on the bed as Octavia got down on the floor in between his legs. He picked up his phone to check the time real quick, seeing a ton of messages from his friends in their groupchat. Harper had debated on what to wear to the mansion that conveyed both a ' _fuck you_ ' and ' _I'm better than you_ ', but subtle,  _and_  showed off her butt. He managed to shoot off a quick text back about how the green dress had a bigger ' _I'm only here because I want to be not because my coach made me go_ ' energy before Octavia was pulling his phone from his hand and guiding it towards her head.

"Less stalking of the princess on social media and more braiding, we're on a clock here."

"I was texting," Bellamy countered, defensive, as he begrudgingly started parting her long brown hair. Maybe he pulled a little hard, harder than necessary, but she didn't even flinch. "I wasn't stalking anyone."

So what he did check her instagram a little obsessively now and then? It was public. If she didn't want people to see she would put it on private. He wasn't a creep. He just liked her face. A lot.

"Sure," she retorted, already bored and typing away on her own phone, black nail polish chipped as she started chewing on her thumbnail. "It's okay if you like her, Bell."

"I don't," he bit back, jaw clenched. He didn't know why he was so defensive about it, who he's really angry at here.

"You can't choose who you like. It's not your fault you like Clarke, just like it's not mine," she took a deep breath, kept her eyes trained firmly on her phone even though her thumb had stopped scrolling, "I like Lexa."

Bellamy swallowed, tight, pausing for a beat before he willed his fingers to keep moving through her hair. It was a lot to process. He forced his voice to be steady. "You like Lexa?"

Her thumb continued to scroll down her twitter feed, just like that. "I do."

Bellamy was so distracted he had to start over with one of the braids, trying to straighten the hair back out, untangle it from the mess he made. "Girls in general or just Lexa?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, almost shy, so unlike her, and his chest ached uncomfortably. "I'm still figuring it out."

He doesn't want her to think he's attacking her sexuality, because he doesn't care about that. He cares about the fact it's fucking Lexa Kane they're talking about here. Not only is it a little weird because Octavia is his non-biological sister and Lexa is his biological sister that he never speaks to, she's a  _bad_ person. She's clearly only doing it to get to him. And it's working, too, he realized, feeling the dread settle in the bottom of his stomach.

"Okay," he said, finally, the word sounding foreign in his mouth, and she turned her head to look up at him, craning her neck. Something hopeful shimmered in her eyes and his chest tightened. (At least she still cared about his opinion of her. He couldn't stand to disappoint her.) She raised her eyebrows, "Okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, and his sister beamed, turning back to her phone as she drew her knees up to her chest. He should be happy she was even talking to him again. Her longest grudge to date was twenty-one days of the cold shoulder, and that was just because he accidentally washed her favorite shirt on a too high temperature.

It's in moments like these he's remembered of how different they are. Sometimes he forgets they didn't take Octavia in until she was eight years old, that before they did she got tossed around from foster home to foster family to juvenile hall and back. It made her see the world in black and white, made her unattached, and at times clinical.

She loves them, he knows that—but she treats love like a choice, like an on-off switch, like something you have to earn over and over again—and deep down he has always been afraid that one day she'd stop. That one day he would screw up and she would no longer think he was worthy. That would wreck him, because Octavia is his entire life. It's part of why he's so protective over her.

"O," he started, when he's tying up the last braid. Even if, and that's a  _big_  if, Lexa wasn't asking Octavia's help for the wrong reasons, she was pretty much emotionally unavailable anyway. "Just… promise me you'll be careful, yeah?"

"God, this truly is the darkest timeline," she groaned, petulant, and he couldn't say he disagreed. She ran her hand over her head gingerly, to feel the plaits under her fingers, decide if they're tight enough. "I wish everybody would stop telling me that."

So he wasn't the first. He wanted to tell her that should mean something, that it  _would_  mean something to anyone else, but then she leant up, kissing his cheek to thank him for his service and scurried off back to her room. For a moment, he stared at the spot where she was sitting before and decided that he's just going to have to be okay with this. There's no changing Octavia's mind once it's made up. Besides, she'll find out for herself soon, knowing Lexa, and then they'll  _both_ have a legitimate reason to shittalk her on the couch while they watch crappy old kid cartoons. It's not worth risking losing his sister over.

Most of the cheerleading squad is at the party as well, but Octavia opts not to go in favor of catching a The Hills marathon on MTV. Which he is pretty sure is code for her going to watch an illegal underground cage-fighting match with Jasper. The boxer braids were a dead giveaway. The less he knows, the better.

Ontari—cheer captain—sets up a game of truth or dare in the Kane's living room, speakers pumping out the beats of various pop songs, while the parents mostly spend their time outside in their garden, with hors d'oeuvres, a live violin player and boastful conversations about how much they earn to compensate for whatever it is they're missing in life.

He'd rather stay outside with his mom and make fun of the other parents together, but Kane is out there and it's not really his crowd. (They all look at him with those judgy, pitying eyes. The child Kane didn't want.) Whenever she gets the chance, Lexa likes to remind him it's not with them, either.

"Truth," he picks, when Harper asks him the infamous question that doesn't even come close to comparing to ' _to be or not to be_ '. They're situated in a circle off expensive furniture with too many frilly pillows. He's squeezed in on top of a camelback between Miller and Clarke.

Before Harper can open her mouth to respond, Lexa buts in, tone even sharper than her dark eye-liner, "Do your issues stem from knowing you have a dad who would rather have you just been a stain on the bed sheets?"

So much for pretending to be civil with each other. Her friends erupt into boisterous laughter, and if they weren't all such pieces of shit, he would actually feel embarrassed.

He hears Harper huff out a ' _bitch_ ' under her breath, Monroe's fingernails digging into the fancy pillow on her lap. Beside him Miller sits up and inhale sharply, like he's ready for a verbal smackdown, but then Clarke, of all people, beats him to it. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Her girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend he guesses, scowls, hissing, "Why do you always have to defend him?"

"I don't," Clarke bites back, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're just an asshole."

"Fine, since he refuses to answer I'll change my question," Lexa decides, tipping back her head to drain the last of her champagne. When she looks back at them, her eyes are a hollow darkness. "Did you and Clarke have fun, going behind my back?"

"You're one to talk," he huffs, accusatory, at the same time as Clarke snaps, "There was never anything between us, Lexa!"

Bellamy doesn't dare to look over at Clarke, barely glances at her out of the corner of his eyes in solidarity. There  _was_  never anything between them. Which he guesses is true, so he doesn't know why it still stings like being unexpectedly woken with a bucket of ice cold water.

Lexa snorts, unattractive, putting her empty glass down on top of the coffee table as she looks Bellamy straight in the face. "Look at you. Taking everything that's mine."

"She's not your property," Bellamy growls, narrowing his eyes, and he doesn't know why her shit-talking her ex gets him more heated than when she does it to him.

"I would prefer you guys stop talking about me like I'm not here, actually," Clarke buts in, heated, skin on her neck an unfamiliar splotchy red.

Lexa snatches Mbege's glass away from him, waving Clarke off, like she's already bored, "Truth or dare?"

"Truth," she replies through gritted teeth. Bellamy doesn't know what kind of game they're playing, but it stopped being even remotely fun two minutes ago. Why is Clarke playing along? Why still, even now?

"You can't pick two truths in a row," Anya snarls, referring to Bellamy's truth and Harper's before that. Hers was just if she would ever do a chick. How did they end up here?

"Fine," she hisses, falling back into her seat. Petulantly pressing, "Dare."

It's quiet for a blissful three seconds before Lexa leans forward, elbows on her knees as another empty glass dangles from her hand. A slow smirk crosses her face, but her eyes are vacant, distant, almost pained. "I dare you to show us how you  _really_  feel about him."

A tense silence follows, and if looks could kill, Lexa might actually be dropping dead right now. He opens his mouth to protest because he's not really sure he wants to be part of whatever it is they're doing, but then Clarke is taking his face in her hands and pressing her lips to his. He barely has time to register it, his heart squeezing in about seventeen breakneck beats in five seconds, before it's over and Clarke is storming off outside.

"So," Raven plops down beside him in the now vacant seat with a coke, taking a sip of the straw noisily, "What did I miss?"

Like that, he's pulled back down to earth. He pushes himself up, needing either some air and to get as far away as possible from all these people, or to talk to Clarke about what the hell just happened. He's not sure. "Excuse me."

Bellamy goes out into the front yard, finds Clarke standing by one of their big oak trees, leaning on it as she tries to adjust the strap of her heel a little too roughly. Guesses he has his answer.

He says her name, trying to draw her attention seeing she's still cursing at her heel. She turns at the sound, immediately looking apologetic.  _Oh_. "I'm sorry about what just happened," she says, folding her arms in front of her chest, "Her dad pissed her off and she loves to take that out on you, and she pisses  _me_  off so much, I… I didn't think."

"So what is this?" He frowns, clenching his jaw as his fingers curl into fists. Is he hearing this right? "I'm just a pawn in your game? You kiss me to get back at her? You  _use_  me—"

"I didn't use you!" She cuts him off, looks taken aback by her own outburst as her chest heaves up and down erratically. There's a beat, and then she's shaking her head, voice much softer, she relents, "That kiss wasn't just a game to me."

Suddenly it comes rushing back to him all at once. The slight tremble of her fingers as she dragged his chin towards hers, how her thumb moved over his cheek as she kissed him, the steady press of her lips against his, how she ran off immediately after.

He takes a step forward, opening his mouth, but nothing comes out. He really likes her, but he doesn't want to risk whatever is between them if she doesn't feel the same way. She makes him feel calm, centered, understood. He hasn't had that in a long time.

Then she strides closer as well, looking up at him almost expectantly. He leans down, his forehead resting on hers, and he watches her eyes flick down to his lips. He's about to lean down, do something about the unfamiliar pressure building in his chest with every beat of his heart, when his whirlwind of a baby sister—who wasn't even supposed to be here—storms passed them yelling Lexa's name.

Clarke takes a quick step back from him, and they both turn to watch Lexa walking out onto the porch, probably looking for her ex-girlfriend and finding Octavia instead. "You disbanded the fucking drama club? Jasper just told me!"

"What?" Lexa answers, blankly, eyes darting over to them for only a second. Bellamy remembers all the drinks she's thrown back the past hour. She must not be in her best state of mind.

Octavia laughs, loud, and Bellamy almost shudders. This isn't going to end well. "Apparently it was either training equipment for your precious soccer team or the drama funding pulled, and I guess the choice was easy for you, wasn't it?"

Lexa shakes her head, taking a step toward her, "How do you—"

"It was you," his sister bites, accusatory, hateful, seething, pointing a finger at her. "You went to Wallace and fucked us over to help yourself."

Lexa just stands there, like she's watching an accident unfold in front of her and Octavia shakes her head, her voice actually breaking now. "I told you that club was important to me. Most of the kids in there—they're like me. They know what it's like to have been in the foster system—" She wipes at her cheek, and Bellamy wants to go over there, but finds Clarke tugging on his sleeve, shaking her head 'no'. Octavia says the next part so softly, he can barely make it out, "It was where we could feel like we belonged."

Not even he has heard the full story before. He just knew the club ended up meaning a lot to her, despite it's illegemateness. She shared that with Lexa, and she still screwed her over? He feels a serious need to go punch some walls.

"Octavia," Lexa finally says, diplomatic, not even having the decency to look sorry. "It was better for my team."

"What about me?" She yells, furious, and the other girl tries to put her hand on top of her shoulder, tries to calm her down, but Octavia yanks it away from her grasp. She almost looks ashamed of her own outburst now. "No,  _screw_ you, Lexa. Have fun at your party."

"O," he calls after her, wanting to console her, but she storms right by him, waving him off. He stands there, feeling like absolute shit for another moment before he catches Lexa's gaze.

"Come on," Clarke whispers, tugging on his hand and pulling him towards the back of the house, away from her glaring ex-girlfriend and up a staircase. It leads to a room above the garage. She immediately unbuckles her wedges, weight supported by her shoulder leaning against the door, one and then the other, wiggling her toes after she steps out of them.

Bellamy wanders around the room, pointer-finger trailing along the expensive looking striped wallpaper. The room has a desk, a comfy-looking lounging chair, a big bookcase, and a  _bed_. His family could live here, it's big enough at least.

"It's their guesthouse," Clarke explains with a roll of her eyes as she starts lifting the chain of her small white shoulder bag over her head, dropping it on top of the bed.

He turns to look at her, raising his eyebrows. "Do I even want to know why you know that?"

She walks up to him, slowly, coming to a halt when their bodies are almost touching. She lifts her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. He's just a bit taller than her, now she's not wearing her shoes. She's wearing a powder-pink silk maxi dress, half of her hair up in a bun, the other half falling down her shoulders. She's a fucking sight to behold. His heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, like it's trying to escape. "Yeah," she smirks, teasing, hands sliding up his chest, settling on his tie. "Me and Lexa had sex here  _all_ the time."

He scrunches up his nose, and she laughs, the sound raspy and so joyous he can't help but grin at her. Then she's leaning up, pressing her mouth against his. Their first kiss was kind of shitty; unexpected, hard, so quick he barely had time to kiss back. The second one is so much better. It's less aggressive, slower this time, rubbing their lips back and forth against each other before he can't take it any longer and his tongue is dipping between her parted lips to taste her.

"I've wanted this for a while now," he breathes when he pulls back, brushing back a strand of hair from her face, other hand still curled around her hip.

"Me too," she murmurs, already leaning back up to kiss him, hastily, greedily, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He stops her hands, and she pulls back, looking confused. It's just that he kind of wants to enjoy this moment, and she's moving so fast, hurrying along like it's no big deal.

"You're so beautiful," he declares, genuine, running his finger over the slope of her nose, because he can't quite help it, taking her in. She smiles, but it wavers, then she's pulling him back down to her mouth. "I like you," he admits, between kisses, "A lot."

"I'm sorry," she mutters, stepping back from him as her eyes dart around everywhere but on him. She presses a hand to her forehead, then starts adjusting the strap of her dress back onto her shoulder. "I, uhm—I have to go."

"Clarke—" He starts, stepping forward as a frown takes over his face. He doesn't understand. One minute they're kissing, and the next she's running off.

She shakes her head picking up her bag from the bed, then she holds up a hand, presumably to keep him from walking closer to her. "I just wish you hadn't—" Her eyes close briefly, then they spring open, directly boring into his. They look glazed over, but he's not sure. He's not sure of anything anymore. "I wish you hadn't said anything." She lifts it onto her shoulder, bending down to pick up her shoes before pulling open the door. Then she's gone.

 _I like you._  Isn't that what girls want to hear?

When he walks back down the stairs—after staring at nothing for a minute, trying to figure out what just happened, how he could have her and then just not have her within a span of ten minutes and coming up short—he finds Kane at the end of them.

"Bellamy," the son of a bitch starts, authoritative, like he isn't the last person in the world he wants to talk to right now. "I just wanted to speak to you for a moment."

"No thanks," he announces, blunt, brushing passed him. Kane must turn as well, facing his back, because his voice sounds closer. "Just a moment, son."

This makes Bellamy pivot around, narrow his eyes at him, spit back, "I'm not your son."

"I understand why you're upset," he continues, calmly, like it's a normal conversation between friends. "But don't be so quick to judge me. It's easy to have all the answers from a distance, but everybody makes decision they regret. Me, your mother," his voice trails off, possibly at the murderous look on Bellamy's face. The corners of his lips turn up almost wistfully, "But we learn to live with it. It's part of life."

"Cute," Bellamy comments, cold, "Thanks for the condescending life lesson. It's been a pleasure."

He makes a move to turn, but Kane starts speaking again, so he settles on gritting his teeth together instead. "I was young and stupid. At one point, I didn't know how to turn back. I thought it was easier to just ignore it." Him, he means. Easier to ignore him. "I wasn't brave enough to swallow my pride and apologize. Maybe if I had been, you and me would be on better terms."

"Maybe," Bellamy bites back, non-commital, not sure what brought on the confessional but not really in the mood nonetheless.

"You know Lexa has been training for this her entire life. This is all she's ever wanted," the older man reveals, after a beat. Bellamy has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.  _Of course_. Of-fucking-course this is why. Lexa. "It's hard out there for girls, female athletes. They don't just get any scholarships handed to them, and now you're the centre forward her odds have decreas—"

Bellamy shakes his head, cutting him off loudly, more hurt by the implication of his words than he originally thought. "What? You think I have scholarships lined up for me all over the country?" He takes a step forward, threateningly. "That is hasn't hurt me for all these years, not being able to play the only thing that kept my mind off my mom and my sister and our fight for survival?"

He opens his mouth, shakes his head, trying to find the strength to not have his voice crack. He doesn't want Kane to know the depths of his pain, of his struggles. "Because that's what  _we_  had to do, while you sat up her in your castle, living. We had to  _survive_." He scoffs, humoured, seething with anger, "I fucking knew this was about Lexa, not me. You want me to quit the team?"

Of course it was. Lexa is the one he cares about, Bellamy's just spare parts. An inconvenience.

It takes all the strength he has, but Bellamy manages to muster together a smirk. "Don't hold your breath, because that's  _never_ going to happen." His feet are moving then, not giving himself time to register the look on Marcus face as to keep himself from torturing himself with it, and soon he turns the corner, halfway on his way back to the main house when he collides into a body. A familiar body.

She cocks an eyebrow, pointedly looking over her shoulder at his father's retreating form. "Is that Marcus?"

"Hi mom," he breathes, ignoring her question because he isn't quite ready to rehash what just happened. "I was just coming to find you."

His mom looks unimpressed at his segue, but he loves her for not pressing any further. "I saw your sister storm off earlier."

"Yeah," he hisses, pulling a face. "It's not good."

"And you and that blonde girl?"

He winces. "Even worse.'

"Coo?" His mom offers, and he grins despite himself, despite feeling like he missed the biggest shot of his life just now, like all he can do is screw his life up exponentially. He wraps his arm around his mom's shoulder, agreeing, "Coo."

He doesn't talk to Clarke for a few weeks. She avoids him in class and at practice, and he doesn't dare and try to contact her in any way outside of school. He misses her, all the time, but lately he's not sure if he just misses the idea of her. Did he even really know her? Considering her reaction when he told her he liked her, that he cared about her, maybe the connection he thought they had wasn't so mutual. Maybe it wasn't all he'd cracked it up to be. Maybe he was just fooling himself. Either way, he got burned and he isn't going to risk it another time. Not when there's so much at stake.

He spends his time getting back to his real life, focused on the game, focus on doing well in school. No matter how angry he was at Kane, he also wasn't lying. Getting a scholarship was probably going to be the only way for him to go to college, and it wouldn't be easy.

It's going relatively well. The Grounders are still on their undefeated streak, and he's passing most of his classes with flying colors. Except for his elective Robotics class, but to be fair half the shit they say in there isn't even  _English_.

Then, one Saturday night, Raven calls. He just came home from a late shift at Polaris, barely managing to take a shower, before his phone started ringing obnoxiously loud. He'd just laid down on his bed, eyes closed to try and get some rest. His entire body ached.

He has no idea why she would call him, especially not this time of day, but he picks up anyway, and in the end he's glad he did. "Hello?"

"Bellamy. It's Raven. Can you come pick us up somewhere?" She demands like it's not really a question, voice mixed in with the sound of people talking and music playing loudly in the background. "I think somebody tried to drug Griffin."

He immediately sits up, swinging his legs off the bed, suddenly wide awake. His brain goes into survival mode, heart pumping adrenaline through his veins. He has a million questions, but settles on, "Where are you?"

"College party. I'll send you our location."

"Okay. I'll be there as soon as possible."

It's a twenty minute drive. He can tell I don't care by Icona POP is blasting over the speakers from the ground floor of the dormitory, and it only gets worse when he reaches the boys' dorm, third floor. Lights are flashing so fast and bright, he's kind of getting dizzy. He pushes himself through the crowd, finally finding Raven looking relatively panicked.

She has her hair down, which is new, wearing a v-neck ruby colored camisole, a silver cuff around her upper arm. Her brow is furrowed together, a tiny layer of sweat covering her forehead as she closes the distance between them. "I can't find her," he makes out the second time she yells it in his ear over the music.

She drags him over to the bathrooms, where the noise is still migraine-worthy but where they can at least make out what the other is saying. Raven smells like alcohol, and her eyes dart around everywhere as she explains, "She was talking to some guy—Chase or whatever. Suddenly she was stumbling over her own feet, eyes rolling into the back of her head. I told him to fuck off and then left her alone for like two seconds to go get her some water." She groans, pressing a hand to her forehead as she leans back onto one of the sinks. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have left her alone."

Bellamy wants to comfort her, but all he can think about right now is Clarke and how to get her back safely. So instead he settles on a quick squeeze of her shoulder, which'll have to do for now. "Chase, you said?"

It's not much, but it's the only lead they have. She's looking around, probably to see if she can find him. "Chase, Chad—something completely predictable like that."

"Who's brilliant idea was it to go to a frat party anyway?" He snaps, narrowing his eyes. Okay, so that one slipped out without his permission.

"Mine." Her jaw flexes. "Judging me isn't going to help us find her."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to remain calm and rail his temper back in. "Okay. He can't have taken her far without drawing attention so he has to be somewhere on this floor, or at the very least, this building. I suggest we start asking her around, knocking on doors?"

She nods, running a hand over her face, and they start their search until finally someone actually has something useful to say. "I don't know a Chase," a guy dwarls, pointing a thumb over his shoulder as beer sloshes over the edge of his cup, "but that pretentious dick Cage is in room 314."

Raven beats him there, despite her injury, knocking on the door roughly. "Open up, dickwad."

No response.

"Clarke?" Bellamy commands, hoping for a sign of anything. He could be doing  _anything_  to her to prevent her from alarming them. Anything. They exchange a glance, and he mutters a quick 'fuck it' under his breath before telling her to step aside. He kicks the door in, startling the slimey douchebag standing in front of his record player.

Everything slows down when he sees Clarke is asleep on the bed, hair like a curtain hiding her face, hand hanging over the side of the bed, her jacket dragged down half her arm. He quickly rushes over to her side, brushing away her hair as he tries to gently shake her awake. She makes a noise, but doesn't open her eyes.

He turns around, ready to kick Cage's ass when he finds him already on the ground, Raven towering above him, waving her first around like she just used it to break his jaw. She kicks him in the stomach, the guy rolling over in pain, then sinks down into a crouch. She grabs him by the collar, making him look at her, "I'm making sure you never touch a girl again, even if it's the last thing I do." She puts her face closer to his, disgust and anger seeping off her features. "And you better hope to God she's okay, or I'm going to do worse things to you than have you kicked out of this college."

Bellamy wants to kill the guy, but for now he has to trust Raven will figure out a way to ruin his life in other ways and the priority is to get Clarke somewhere safe. He turns around, picking her up from the bed carefully. She doesn't even respond, arms hanging limply from her body. Raven follows him down to his car, and she tells him to drop them off at the Griffin household.

"I'll just call Abby for advice. She's a doctor." Bellamy must look over at her funnily through the rearview mirror, because she elaborates, Clarke's head on her lap. She's pulling her phone from her back pocket. "Clarke's mom."

They pull up to the Griffin estate, hoist and carry her out of the car together. She can kind of stand now, leaning into him and pressing her face into the crook of is neck. He runs a hand down her arm comfortingly. "We're going to get you somewhere safe, upstairs, okay?"

She humms, eyes still closed, and him and Raven struggle to lead her up the stairs but succeed eventually. The other girl takes off her shoes as Bellamy pulls back the covers of her queen sized bed, helping her in. She immediately snuggles into her blankets. Bellamy stares down at her, worried. "What did her mom say?"

"To just let her sleep it off. She said the drugs should be out of her system by the morning," she replies, cradling her hand to her chest as she carefully stretches out her fingers one by one. "Make sure she drinks enough fluids in the morning, and to call her if anything feels off."

Bellamy cocks an eyebrow. "She's not coming?"

"She's stationed in Fort Azgeda right now. That's a ten hour drive, at least," Raven retorts, just as judgemental at his attitude as he was with his previous statement. "Besides, this is Clarke we're talking about. There's no way in hell she's going to be killed off by one little pill."

"I'll be right back," he mutters, going downstairs to the kitchen to get Clarke a bottle of water in case she wakes up and Raven an ice pack for her knuckles.

"Nice right hook," he tells her, after he leans back on the desk while Raven takes a seat on the chair. They make sure to face Clarke, just in case she has to throw up or stops breathing or something. "I didn't actually see it, but he looked wrecked."

"Thanks," she says, putting the ice pack on top of her knuckles. To her credit, she doesn't wince, just a slight twitch of eyebrow. She cranes her neck to look up at him. "I would've killed him but I didn't want to reinforce the whole spicy latina trope."

"You  _killed_  the whole constraint game," he admits, skeptical, corners of his mouth turned up. Being Ambiguously Brown, he gets it though.

She finally cracks a smile, mirroring his, and then it's quiet for a second. His eyes wander over back to Clarke; dead asleep. He won't be able to sleep, knowing she hasn't woken up yet, knowing something could wrong.

"You know the thing about Clarke is, she finds it hard to let her guard down," Raven announces, trailing off for a second, before adding, "But once you're in…" She tilts her head, looking over at her friend, snoring softly. "She's got a  _great_ heart." Her eyes meet his when she turns back to him, and she knocks her knee into his thigh. "Just—keep trying."

Eventually, Raven tells him she will watch Clarke for the night and that he should try and catch some sleep. "Thanks. For showing up," she declares, hesitation coating her voice, then grins, "Even clearly intoxicated—she said you would."

He nods, in lieu of explaining he would've done it for anyone because while that's true he wouldn't have gotten so irrationally angry it if it  _was_ someone else, taking one last lingering look at her before he gets down to his car.

That Monday, he finds himself frozen in place on the courtyard, watching his sister emerge from the parking, holding hands. With Lexa.

"Hi," he hears someone say beside him, and because he's so distracted by the sight of it all, the voice repeats herself, pulling on the sleeve of henley. "Bellamy?"

"Yeah," he finally says, following up the hand wrapped around the fabric of his shirt to find Clarke staring back at him with her blue eyes. A flash of her lips on his comes back to him, but he kicks it back to the part of his brain it came from.

She smiles, but it's shy and unsure, and not really anything like he's used to from her. "I just wanted to say thanks for the other night. Raven told me what you did."

Oh fuck. It's not like he forgot. It's just that his sister is currently wrapped around the fingers of the literal devil.

"You don't make it easy on me," he says, absentminded smile on his face, before his brain is taking him back  _there_. "You know she threw rocks at my window last night?"

"Who, Raven?" Clarke's brow furrows together, struggling to catch up with his train of thought.

"Lexa," he corrects her, biting on the inside of his cheek before he pushes out a sigh. "It was intended for Octavia's window probably, but by then she'd caught my attention." He kind of accidentally overheard them talking about the whole drama club ordeal, how Lexa seemed to ignore Octavia in public, Octavia thought it was shame, Lexa said it was protection. "Then I saw them making out in the rain."

Clarke winces visibly. "I'm sorry." Her hand wraps around his bicep comfortingly for a short squeeze, and he wishes she wouldn't do that. "You're doing okay? With all of that?"

He blinks down at Clarke stupidly, taken aback by how they're just back to pretending his tongue was never in her mouth, then explains, "Octavia has made it very clear she doesn't care what I think anyway."

"Well, I think you're a great big brother," Clarke tells him, patting him in between the shoulder blades sympathetically. There's an unnaturally long pause. "And a great friend, too."

When his head shifts to look at her, his brow furrowed together, she is chewing her bottom lip like she either regrets saying it, maybe even nervous like he might not accept her offer to take it all back, or is feeling immensely awkward at the fact she has to friendzone him in public. Which is—fine, really. He was her friend before they kissed and made it messy, he can be her friend after. It sounds a whole lot better than not having her in his life at all.

"Can I list you as a professional reference in the future?" He answers, taking the easy way out, just as the bell rings. She grins, and they start walking inside. He tells her about Kane, the awkward conversation they had, before parting ways when they reach the biolab classroom. And it's good, because he can still tell her stuff and it's not weird.

He turns the corridor by himself to enter the library for home room, sitting down somewhere in the back and realizing he's finished all of his homework, takes out the Iliad. Raven sits down beside him, and they both pretend to listen to Mr. Shumways promotional talk about the ROTC while discussing the players of Eligius High—their biggest competitor for state championships and coincidentally their next game up—under their breaths.

"What's that?" She asks, louder, now that Shumway has moved on to answer questions anyone might have and is going table by table. Raven nods over to his book.

"Oh. My mom used to read it to me when I was little," he answers, "Been re-reading it whenever I have the time for a few months now."

"Aww," she mocks him, pulling the book her way. "You even put little notes in the margins. Nerd."

"Hey. It's a classic," he retorts, half-offended, trying to get it back from her, but she swats his hands away. "Don't knock it till you've tried it."

She picks it up, scans the back for a summary. "If I pretend to read this, you'll join me out for a drink tonight?" He must look surprised—despite the fact it's a Monday, they're barely friends—because she rolls her eyes. "I'm getting the results scans of my knee back today and no matter what the outcome, I feel like getting wasted. Besides, Clarke's mom is visiting so she's basically grounded and all my other friends are lame."

"Didn't take the whole roofie thing so well?"

Raven winces. "Even though Clarke would never admit it, she and Abby are very alike. It's why they clash so much. They're both too stubborn for their own good."

"Well," Bellamy huffs, pulling the book from her grasp. After the whole Octavia-Lexa fiasco, he could  _definitely_  use a drink himself. "I'll gladly be your second choice tonight."

Raven and him go to a bar, making good use of their fake-IDs, play a bit of pool, flirt with strangers a little—that's about all he remembers before waking up the next morning, in someone's bed, that's not his, and with someone beside him. It's Raven. Of course it's Raven. Thank God it's Raven.

He sits up, immediately feeling nauseous. Why did they drink so much?  _Right_. Because the doctors told Raven that she is going to have to stop playing soccer if she wants to keep being able to walk, the damage done to her knee permanent. The brace is going to be permanent. The pain, permanent. Getting hella drunk sounded less permanent. He lies back down.

A flash of Raven leaning over a pool table comes back to him, the memory hazy at best. "She reassured me you two are just friends," she says, but it sounds hollow, like it's coming from far away. She pockets a red ball, then looks up at him with a cocked eyebrow. "Are you?"

"Definitely," he hears himself answer, picking up his own cue stick. It's a friendly inquiry, so it hardly explains why he overcompensated so badly. "Me and her—we're not like that."

The memory flashes away, instead being replaced by a pounding headache. Not only is his mom going to kill him for staying out all night on a school day, taking one look down at himself, he realizes he slept with Raven. He groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. When the gesture seems to send a jolt of pain up his arm, he takes it back off, examining it.

There's a fucking tattoo, the size of a dollar coin, on the inside of his arm. Right below his elbow. It's a planet, he guesses, with one ring, just a few thin, neat black lines, some simple shading. His own fucking death sentence. "What the fuck?"

"Oh, right," Raven says, pulling her face off her pillow, hair stuck to her cheek. She snorts, still high on sleep. "I made you get Uranus." Then she holds out her own arm, showing off a similar sized circle, only hers has no ring and is filled out with more squishy, wiggly lines making it look like it holds the sea within it. "I got Venus because I'm a fucking badass."

"This is just great," he snaps, forcing himself to get up and look for his clothes. Finding his shirt, he pulls it over his head.

"Well, it had been," Raven yawns, "Till you woke me up."

He throws her shirt at her head and it hits her straight in the face. "We're late for school." He finds his pants, steps into his shoes, purposely ignores the missed messages on his phone for another minute, then realizes it's been awfully quiet. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turns back to the bed. "How are you doing?"

She's sitting up now, leaning back against the headboard. Her eyes snap over to his. "With the fact I'm disabled?"

He lifts a shoulder. "Sure."

Something flashes across her eyes, something pained and incredibly broken, but it's gone just as fast, replaced with a smirk that's  _definitely_  overcompensating for something. "I'm thinking we could have some more of that fun, after the game Friday, if you don't mind. I could use a distraction." It's her last game on the team, probably, if she can even convince Miller to put her in.

"Yeah, sure," he concedes, like he could somehow fix her, despite knowing better. "My mom has a shift at the hospital and I'm sure O will be off with Lexa, you can come over to my place?"

Considering he's probably going to be grounded for the next fifty years, he's not sure they have any other options anyway.

A victorious look takes over her features. "Text me the address."

The game is a neck and neck race. The Miners aren't just their biggest competitor because of how good they are at soccer. They're also their biggest competitor because of the long standing feud between Eligius Secondary School and Arkadia High ever since the fuckery that was 2008. The captain of their football team stole Arkadia's school mascot (which was pretty much just a naked mole rat because they live mostly under _ground)_. The Grounders ended up getting at least six members of the team arrested over it, effectively ending their chances at winning that year's championship. The Miners electrocuted the rat in retaliation—it was messy; people held memorials, ran vigils and cried for days. They still have the shrine for Ark the 24th up on the second floor next to their trophy case. It's been a full-on war between both athletic and academic competing teams ever since.

After the mandatory pep-talk from Coach Miller during halftime with a 2-2 score on the board and the Miners breathing down their necks, he finds Clarke at the water station. Or she finds him, just as he's taking a swig of his bottle, white towel thrown over his neck.

"You know, even Messi said that sometimes you have to accept you can't win all the time," she beams, catching him by surprise. There's a small 'G' painted on her cheekbone in their school colors, her wavy hair up in a high ponytail, tied together with a big ribbon. She looks kind of like an adult toddler, but not as weird, it's cute. Clarke cocks an eyebrow, teasingly, "Messi is a—"

"I know who  _Messi_  is, Clarke," he snaps, without any real heat. He uses the towel to wipe some sweat off his brow, taking another swig of his drink as he sarcastically adds, "But thanks for the vote of confidence."

He knows she's just teasing him, trying to make him feel better and stop sulking around like they've already lost, but it's getting harder and harder to pretend he can be just her friend.

She chokes back a laugh, poker-face falling back into place. "I'm just saying," she counters, innocently, squeezing his bicep while he pretends he's totally fine. "It's okay to lose some battles if it helps you win the war."

As if on cue, Charmaine Diyoza—Miners team captain—passes them by, tapping the ball back and forth between her and a teammate repeatedly, probably to warm up for second half, bitingly remarking, "No matter your team stinks, with all the incest going on. Didn't she used to date that dyke?"

"Second place is first loser," Clarke reminds him, defiant, a total 180 on her earlier carpe diem, live love laugh, kumbaya, it's-about-the-journey-not-the-destination attitude. The stadium lights are highlighting the glitter spray in her hair, and her mouth settles into a hard line.

"That's more like it, princess," he declares, letting out a humoured scoff as he throws the towel on top of the bench beside the water station. He runs a hand through his hair as Clarke starts asking him if he's going to Lexa's after-party before she is cut off.

"Griffin, position for pyramid!" Ontari screams, shrill, apparently still not over her cheerleader's outburst a few weeks ago (or maybe it's just who she is a person), as she throws Clarke's pompons straight into her face.

The blonde manages to catch them, mock-saluting, and they share a laugh as Clarke shows him her best ironic spirit fingers. "Well, cheer-duty calls. Good luck," she announces, opening her arms. He can kind of see the slight ' _why did I just do that_ ' panic in her eyes, like she hadn't meant to lean in for a hug like that—either because it makes the platonic-but-we-kissed-once lines so blurry or because she's not sure if he wants to reciprocate—so to ease her worries, he wraps his arms around her waist.

Her arms come up around his shoulders, the pom-poms dangling from her wrist tickling the back of his neck. He feels breathless without reason and it's then he realizes Clarke was wrong; it didn't blurr any lines, not for him. Nothing between them would ever feel wrong, whatever it was, friendship or something else—it would always feel just right. "Wouldn't want you to miss out on your cheer-ponsibilities," he deadpans.

She grimaces, already trailing backwards towards her squad. "No, five more seconds and Ontari will want to commit cheer-icide."

"Knock 'em dead," he calls out, smirking, just catching the curling of the corners of her lips before she turns around, getting into formation so Octavia can step onto her back. He's so distracted that when he turns, he misses Lexa storming by him and onto the field by just a hair. She throws her hoodie at his feet heatedly. What the hell is her problem now?

The thing is, they'd been doing better lately. Aside from the backhanded compliments every now and then along with the strict avoidance of the subject that was their father, they'd managed to streamline their performance as a unit, managed not to get into any more fist fights, even managed to share some close-lipped smiles on the rare occasions. Tried to bury the hatchet mostly because Octavia threatened to cut out whoever couldn't deal with the other one out of her life. She's cold like that, so it definitely helped him make more of an effort.

And dare he say it—he was actually kind of worried. About Lexa. She usually always meditated before their games, said it helped her focus, but she hadn't done that today for some reason, hadn't done that the last few games he realized now. She was on edge, playing sloppily, missing passes, performing dangerous tackles, even letting Diyoza get under her skin to the point she risked a shot on the goal which is so unlike her it made his skin crawl uncomfortably.

He hurries to catch up with her, putting a hand on her shoulder to get her stop running away from everyone like a maniac. "Lexa—what's your deal?"

She shrugs his hand off, turning around to face him angrily. Her nostrils are flared, her eyes turned into sliths, for a second there he thinks she might actually spit in his face. "What my deal is? My deal is that I am carrying this whole team on my back! This game is my  _life._  My life. And you all do not take it seriously."

"We do! We're out here just like you," he argues, defensive. "We take part in the conditioning training and the weight training and the endless tactic meetings on top of regular practice. We put in the work. We deliver—I mean, we're undefeated!"

"It's not enough," she barks back, taking a step forward to him. Surely it's mean to be threatening, but she falters, blinking up at him like she doesn't quite understand why her body isn't working the way she wants it to. Anya comes jogging over to them, stepping in between them, Dax and Gabor not far behind.

"Lex, he's right," Anya buts in, "You've been acting strange all night."

She takes a step back, shaking her head as she presses the palm of her hand to her hairline. Dax clears his throat, uncomfortable, "Are you okay?" and Bellamy can feel some people walking up behind him. The rest of the team, he figures.

"You see what you did," Lexa ignores them, directly addressing him, voice raspy in a way he's never heard. He knows what she is implying, that he turned them against her. Her eyes, they look so—vacant. Her chest heaves up and down erratically, she's swaying a little on her feet, and it's now he notices the tiny layer of sweat covering her forehead, the heavy bags under her eyes, the way her hands tremble. He tries to reach out again, try and calm her down, but she slaps his hand away. "Do not fucking touch me!"

The cheerleaders finish their routine, the electronic beat of Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe abruptly ending as the buzzer rings through the stadium, signaling for everyone to go back to their seats because the game is about to resume.

He catches Octavia looking over at them concernedly from the sidelines, brushing back some hair from her face as two girls help her down off a split lift. Clarke is still knelt down on the ground, chewing on the inside of her cheek and frowning, trying to catch her breath. He can tell she is trying not to get involved.

Her dad tries to make his way over to the field, but Coach Miller keps him into place, obviously hoping the team figures it out on their own before the referee whistles. From the stands, they can make out Kane's, "Lexa, you want to beat my record—get your head in the game! Stop acting like a child!"

The record. Right.  _Fuck_. Marcus holds the record for most goals ever in a game, which was a game against Eligius. She's trying to beat his record, killing herself over it, the pressure she must feel.

"Shut up," she spits, fierce but voice hoarse, and softer, softer than she must have meant as she closes her eyes, brows furrowing together. She's wobbling on her feet again, and he steadies her by grabbing her arms. She doesn't even shrug him off, or call him names.

"I have," she insists, through gritted teeth, even though her eyes are closed and she looks like she might throw up any second. "I  _have_  to beat. To beat him."

"We will," Bellamy ensures her, hastily, searching her face for any sign of the Lexa he knows, the one that doesn't let him tell her anything, that doesn't get insecure, that doesn't let her father get to her. Desperate, "We will."

Lexa makes a noise, like she wants to say something, but then she falls forward, hitting his chest face-first. He manages to catch her, calling out for a medic as all sorts of people come rushing out onto the field. Including her father, yelling at him to let her go, and Coach Miller, ordering him to hold on, and Octavia, sinking down on her knees beside him to hold Lexa's hand.

Kane shoves his sister aside, hissing about how she has no place here, and Bellamy is glad Octavia is too upset to kick his ass. That's a suspension she can't use on her record. Clarke comes and wraps her arm around Octavia's frame, trying to comfort her as Bellamy shoves the older man back from Lexa with his free hand. "Don't put your hands on her. You're the whole damn reason we're in this mess."

Kane looks stunned, but keeps his mouth shut the entire time as they wait for the medic to finish his examination on her. She is eventually lifted off the field, and into an ambulance.

Coach requests an extra ten minutes from the referee, which he gets, and uses to confront everyone with what just happened. Dax eventually confesses that he gave her some performance enhancers because she ensured him they would take her to a 'higher level'.  _She has barely slept for days_ , Anya tells them,  _and if she wasn't practicing with us, she was practicing with her dipshit dad._  Coach has them swear on their mothers no on else is on those things.

It just explains so much. The way she kept looking over to Kane, the whole game? Taking deep breaths, clenching her jaw? How she apparently stayed up for nights on an end, took  _drugs_? It all makes sense now, with the record, shit.

Thee referee, Emerson, gives them an ultimatum to come resume the game or forfeit. Coach asks them what they want, do they want to continue to play?

"It's what Lexa would want us to do," Anya decides, solemnly. He knows she's right about that, at least, but the entire team is dreary-eyed.

It's a complete shitshow. Raven says she'll fill in for the second half even though she already made her final Grounder appearance before halftime as agreed with Coach, but she only lasts twenty minutes before even her brace and her high pain tolerance can't help her anymore. They lose their first game of the season with 4-2. They tried to keep focus, but it was hard with all that had literally just transpired. Besides, beating Eligius would have been hard with their full team in action. With Raven injured, Dax benched and Lexa out, they didn't stand a chance.

Afterwards, Coach Miller tells them he got word Lexa is okay, just dehydrated and sleep-deprived, and they should all get some rest. Octavia tells him Jasper is giving her a ride to the hospital and he drops Miller off at his house before going home himself.

Raven is already there, waiting in her car with the lights off and her eyes closed. He taps on her window, and she barely even startles, already getting out of the car. "So, that was severely fucked up."

"It was," he agrees, absentmindedly, still feeling like what just happened was an out of body experience. He opens the front door, lets Raven in before closing the door behind him.

She stares at him expectantly. "If you are looking for a girl to talk you down, tell you that you're just upset and not thinking straight, I'm not that—"

Distracted, he wonders, "What?"

She snorts. "It's what you said to me the last time. It was actually kind of sweet, in an asshole kind of way."

"Cute," he mutters, rubbing his forehead with his palm. He still barely remembers anything from that night. He hasn't worn a short-sleeved shirt in the house since then, covered up his forearm at games and practice with a long black sweat cuff. His mom might have an actual stroke if she ever finds out.

Raven leans up and kisses him before he has time to register it, taking her hair out of it's ponytail simultaneously, and soon Bellamy is taking off her shirt and Raven's unbuckling his belt. She hisses, once he tries to lift her up by her thighs, pulling back for a second. He thought it was quite an impressive move, with just one hand, one of his best really, but apparently she disagrees. "Sorry to ruin the romance, but I need to get some ice for my knee before we continue, okay?"

After that game they just had, he completely understands. She pushed herself way too hard.

He nods, tells her, "Help yourself," before kissing her again, brief. Bellamy plops down on the couch with a sigh, watching her walk into the kitchen. He checks his phone, sends a quick text-message to his sister to ask if Lexa is okay and then gets up to get the door, once the bell buzzes.

"Clarke?" He wonders, as soons as he sees what he assumes is  _her_ back. She turns around, and she looks quite distraught. "Are you okay?"

"Uhm," she starts, looking up at him. Her hair is a little wild, her make-up a little smudged under her eyes. Her hand hovers in the air, like she might have reached out to take his in hers, then she shakes her head and pulls it back. "I—I'm sorry. For coming to your house like this. It's just…"

She swallows visibly, eyes darting around erratically, and he's so confused. "When I saw Lexa like that—I don't know—for some screwed up reason it made me realize I made a mistake."

"A mistake?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his brows furrowed together. "Clarke, what are you—" Was she here to talk to Octavia? Apologize to her about wanting her ex-girlfriend back? Or apologize to him, for being about to hurt Octavia's feelings?

"She got into my head. I didn't want to take the risk," she declares, voice just a little shaky, and she's still not making any sense, no sense at all. "All the things you said, that night, at Lexa's house—" Clarke cuts herself off, then smiles tentatively, and he can see the faint beginnings of tears in her eyes. His heart rattles loudly in his chest, and he swallows tightly, tries to get the lump to go away, the one lodged in his throat.  _Oh_. "I ran because I was afraid."

He opens his mouth, but right at that time, Raven comes padding back from the kitchen, just in her jeans and bra, holding an ice-pack in her hand. "Clarke? What are you doing here?"

Clarke looks away from him, at Raven, and he can actually see it dawning on her. The way her slightly parted lips come together in a straight line, the hardness that washes over her gaze, how she straightens her posture. She came here to spill her guts, something incredibly difficult for her, apparently, and here he is—moved on. Or he tried to move on. He's not sure how he feels. Raven is just—they're mostly just friends. The sex is an added benefit.

"Uhm, I came here to tell Bellamy Lexa is okay, I just came back from the hospital," she lies, from the top of her head, just like that, thumbs lodged into her back pockets. If he wasn't just there with her, he'd think she actually did come here to give him an update.

"Clarke," he says, but she waves him off, not making direct eye-contact. "I'll see you guys tomorrow." She's already walking down his driveway to her car when he closes the door.

Raven stands there, with her arms crossed over her chest, eyebrow cocked, dimple in her forehead telling him she's irritated at best. She throws the freezing blue ice-pack at his head and he just manages to catch it before it hits him straight in the face. "That was definitely not just about Lexa. I thought you two were just friends?"

He growls, offended at being called a liar, "We  _are_."

Arbitrarily, she scoffs, severely unimpressed by him, "Friends like you and Harper, or friends like you and me?"

"I—" He's actually not sure. What he feels, or felt for Clarke was definitely not just platonic. But what he feels for Raven isn't also strictly platonic, or they wouldn't be able to do what they were just about to do. It's still different, and he doesn't know quite how to explain it to himself, let alone out loud.

"Well, until you figure it out  _this_  isn't happening—I've gone through the whole Other Woman shit and it's not sexy." She's already picking her shirt up, wincing as she bends her knee, pulling it over her head. She pulls her long brown hair from the collar, sending him a judgemental look as she rips the ice-pack from his hands. "And I'm taking this."

He stares at the door for a moment after she's slammed it shut, before running a hand over his face. He's not sure what the hell just happened.

Next morning at breakfast, he feels like he's having the worst hangover of his life without even have gotten the benefits of drinking. When he trudges down the stairs with a pair of his running trainers, he hears someone rummaging through their cabinets. Must be his mom.

To his surprise, however, it's his sister. With a spoon of cereal in her mouth, the box lodged under her armpit and a phone in her other hand, she informs him, "Mom had to pull a double shift last minute."

"Another?" He sighs, sitting down at the kitchen table and rubbing his eyebrows. She's exhausting herself to death.

"Geeze," she exclaims, mouthful, "Trouble in paradise?" Some milk dribbles down her chin and he grimaces at the sight. "You let Lexa see you like this?"

Octavia rolls her eyes, falling down in a chair beside his as she scrolls through her instagram feed, obviously thinking he's not worth a reply. He slips his feet into his shoes and then pulls one foot up to the edge of his chair, starting to tie the laces. He clears his throat awkwardly, feels his shoulder stiffen despite his best efforts for him to be casual about it, "How is she anyway?"

"Alive," she says, then she starts beaming, finally looking up at him. "She told me I was special."

That literally sounds like something a frat boy would say to a naive freshman to get into her pants, but Bellamy bites down on his tongue to keep from making such a remark. Besides, Octavia is already moving on, "She's kind of guarded—"

He scoffs, skeptical."You don't say."

"So it's code," Octavia states, like it's obvious. "She means she cares about me."

He hums, hoping she'll take that as an agreement, pulling his other foot up the edge of the chair. He was planning on going for a run, try and clear his head. Clarke's face keeps flashing in front of his eyes, the betrayal on her face, the thought of having to face her again. His sister is just adding more to the list of things to think about.

Octavia nods at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Who's jacket was that on the floor by the front door?"

Right. The maroon-colored bomber jack. Who did she think it belonged to? It was kind of her signature thing.

"Raven's," he dismisses her, getting up to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He's hoping the less information he gives, the more it'll be clear he doesn't want to talk about it.

Octavia snorts, polishing off the last of her cereal. "That won't last long."

He freezes, hands on the zipper of his hoodie, brow furrowing together as he tries to figure out what the look on her face means. "What do you mean?"

Like it's obvious, she relents, "Because Clarke exists."

He rolls his eyes. "I like Raven. She is fun. She  _understands_ me. Clarke is—complicated. Difficult." She can't make up her mind. She doesn't want him, then she does, and sure, she has her reasons, but it's just a whole lot of trouble for something he's sure wouldn't work out in the long run away. He already tried it once with her, and she bailed. Besides, she's way too tangled in Lexa's business still, and honestly, he just wants one thing that isn't tainted by his half-sister.

Octavia looks at him, unimpressed, batting her eyelashes slowly. "Raven's easy? That's what you're going with?"

"No, not like that," he groans, closing his eyes for a brief second, "I just mean we're more alike." The more thought he gives it, the more he realizes him and Clarke are too different. It would just never work. Not the way he wants it to.

"So she's boring?" Octavia insists, eyebrows raised. She knows just how to twist everything in her favor. Sarcastically, she adds, hand pressed to her chest mockingly, "My brother, ever the romantic."

"Hey," he says, punching her in the arm playfully before pushing open the backdoor. "You didn't want me to interfere with your love life, and I didn't, so stay out of mine."

On Sunday he goes to The Ark to tutor some of the less privileged kids from the neighbourhood for free, and by the time he finishes, it's dark outside and the place is mostly abandoned except for some old men playing chess inside. He goes outside to the rec field. Him, Miller and the girls rarely play out here anymore, too busy with school and their actual soccer team. He kind of misses it, actually.

To his surprise he finds Lexa there, out of all people, doing toe taps with a black ball. Her hood is up, so he doesn't actually recognize her until he's too close to back out and pretend he never saw her.

"Sorry, I thought you were Monroe," Bellamy explains, half-heartedly, when she startles and pulls out her airpods, shoving her hood back. Her face is unusually bare. "I'll leave."

"You don't have to," Lexa announces, surprisingly soft. Or not soft, but, less hateful.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, tentatively, in lieu of asking her how she is, because he is a pussy that is not about to admit he cares.

She shrugs, then sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Avoiding my family."

"Your father," he clarifies, and she exhales loudly through her nose, continuing her toe taps, which he guesses is his answer. He stands there, awkwardly, not sure if he should just leave or stay. He kind of feels like she has something to get off her chest, this heavy tension in the air between them, so he decides on the latter.

Lexa suddenly kicks the ball away, covering her eyes with her hand as her teeth grit together. "God, it's just—he's my father. And I thought that if I was a great player, if I did what I had to do, what he expected of me, if I put in the work, if I could just prove that I was worthy—"

That he what? Would finally accept her? That she would finally be good enough? That he would stop yelling at her for making small meaningless mistakes on the field? Would stop dictating her life for her? People don't fucking change. Especially not Marcus Kane.

"You shouldn't have to earn his love," Bellamy argues, indisputable, and actually a little agitated at the fact this man convinced her she should prove her worthiness, like she was a pet doing tricks to earn treats. "He should just love you."

She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, looking away from him. She opens her mouth, closes it. There's more silence. "I always thought love was weakness." She shakes her head, to herself mostly. "Maybe I still do, I don't know."

Clarke's whole ' _she got into my head_ ' thing suddenly makes a whole lot of sense, and confuses him at the same time.

Bellamy disagrees and not just on principle this time. Love made his mother keep him when she didn't even know him. Love gave his mom the courage to take Octavia in. Love made him take the risk to join the team. Love gave him everything. "Doesn't loving the game make you a better player?"

Lexa looks him straight in the eye as she reveals, ceremoniously, "I'm not sure if I even do anymore."

Then, just like that, she picks up the ball, pulling her hood back up as she gets her airpods back out. It's a clear signal the conversation is over.

To make matters worse, Coach Miller cancels practice until further notice. He tells them they, as a team, have forgotten what soccer is all about. Which is having fun. And, Bellamy, he gets the point, but like, also doesn't completely agree. Sure, he started playing once upon a time because he enjoyed the sport, but soccer is also a way for him to get ahead in life. To get into a good college on a scholarship, making something of his life beyond this town.

His phone is literally blowing up before third period is even over. He risks Ms. Sidney's wrath to sneak in a quick look.

**Nate [09:51 AM]:**

> _i tried everything. even offered to do the dishes today. he's not budging_

**Harper [09:52 AM]:**

> _that's the best you could do, Nathaniel? Seriously?_

**Nate [09:54 AM]:**

> _maybe you guys could offer him s/t instead then_

**Monroe [09:57 AM]:**

> _are u implying we give ur dad head?_

**Harper [09:58 AM]:**

> _Bell, you don't mind taking one for the team, do you?_

He gets the urge to flush his phone through the toilet then, so he figures it's better to just put it away. He can just picture the two of them sitting at the same table right now, giggling about the fact they get to rile him up. He's not entirely in the mood.

Especially not after Clarke completely ignores him in the hallways, even after they definitely had eye-contact. Then Pike, who seems to be on the universe's side on this one and loves to fuck up his life, pairs him up with the princess for their next big history project.

Miller snorts as Bellamy begrudgingly picks up his book and bag to go sit next to his new partner, making room for Bryan to sit down. His hands are full, so that's basically the only reason he's not flipping him off right now.

They have to fill in a questionnaire first, then talk project schematics and eventually present it in front of the whole class in a few weeks.

"I was thinking maybe we could do our project about Homer," Clarke tells him, obviously trying to smooth it over now she has no other choice. Always the diplomat.

"Oh, so  _now_  you're talking?" He huffs, sliding down into his seat after putting his bag down on the ground. She's always deciding everything. What they are, how they feel, when they talk. He's getting tired of it.

Her shoulder stiffen, and she pauses in the middle of writing her name down on top of their answer sheet. "It was a mistake," she says, then visibly winces at her choice of words. She clarifies, pointedly, "Coming to your house. I was just emotional because of what happened with Lexa."

He tilts his head at her, eyes softening. He hadn't taken into account how affected Clarke would be by her ex, who she probably still loved, dropping down on the ground in front of her like she might actually die. Defeated, he settles on, "I don't know what you want me to say."

She opens her mouth, but there's a beat of silence before she actually speaks, "I don't want you to say anything. I'm happy for you."

Bellamy sighs, shifting over the answer sheet to him so he can write down his own name. Despite himself, he starts, "Clarke, me and Raven, we're not—"

"I'm trying to be the good guy here, Bellamy. Don't do this," she cuts him off, shifting her head to look at him, finally. Hardness washes over her features. "I'm already over it." Again, there she goes. The conversation is over because she says it is.

His jaw flexes. "Great."

"Super." Her fingers tighten on her pencil, fingertips turning white.

"I'll do one through fifteen."

"I'll do sixteen through thirty."

He leans his elbow on the desk, supporting his head with his hand as he starts scribbling down on their answer sheet. " _Fine_."

Her nostrils flare, but she doesn't saying anything. He considers it a win.

That Friday, Coach forfeits the game, making it their second defeat in a row after a previously undefeated reign. He really doesn't want to be Nate's dad right now, considering Marcus Kane must be planning to burn his house down right about now.

It does, however, mean they have more time to work on the project together, since the cheerleaders have nothing to cheer for. They do it mostly in silence, sitting at his kitchen table, him on his old laptop he shares with Octavia and her typing away on her MacBook, notebook carefully organized and color-coordinated.

They just finished a heated argument about what  _font_  to use when Octavia comes downstairs, obviously sulking as she gets out the whip cream. Just the whip cream. When his sister sighs for the third time in thirty seconds, Bellamy rolls his eyes, helping Clarke out of the darkness. "Lexa took a father-daughter trip with her dad."

"Yikes," Clarke notes, dry, crossing something off her to-do list with her pencil.

"I don't even know why she would agree to something like that," his sister starts, feverishly, "Her dad is a dick." She glances over at Bellamy, brief. "No offense."

"None taken," he mutters, paging through a book about the Trojan War.

Clarke taps her pencil against her notebook, distractedly. "Because—she will  _never_  give up on him. She's always said that soccer is her destiny, but that her dad gave her that destiny."

"Poetic," Bellamy snorts, and when he looks up, Clarke is narrowing her eyes at him. Which is nothing new, going off just the last few hours, so he's not too bothered by it.

Octavia groans, then puts the can directly in her mouth, filling it with whipped cream. "I'm going back upstairs to cry myself to sleep."

Deadpanning and with his gaze focused on the website in front of him, he tells her, "Have fun."

They hear her stomp up the stairs, loudly, then her door slams, louder, and the beat of some punk song that has no doubt some sort of form of 'fuck you' in the title starts playing, loudest.

"That's not weird for you?" Clarke asks, eyebrow cocked as she leans back in her chair, picking up her glass off the table, sipping on the Calamansi juice his mom prepared that morning.

He wants to push her, pretend like he doesn't know what she is talking about, just for heck of it, but instead decides against it. Because it would be kind of nice. To talk about it for once. Since he can't, with Octavia, for obvious reasons. Or his mom, because that would just add a layer of weird. "Kind of."

The silence stretches between them for a moment, then he elaborates, because he can't not, not with her, "I know I'm not  _actually_  related to Octavia, but she  _is_  my sister. And Lexa is—also my sister, technically. But I'm trying to not… Make it about me, I guess."

"How off-brand," she says, but when his head snaps up to look at her, he can tell she's teasing him. Which is good. Progress.

"And—I don't know. Lexa has been kind of good to her. Octavia told me she wanted to, to have," he gulps, shuddering a little, " _intercourse_ , but she respected Octavia's wishes not to. That's cool."

She could have definitely pushed her, trying to change her mind. She didn't. He respects that.

"Intercourse?" She snorts, pushing her glass back onto the table. "What are you, a virgin?"

Before he can think it through, his mouth is moving, "We both know I'm definitely not a virgin."

Just when they were getting back to normal, awkwardness consumes the room all of a sudden because of what he just implied. They  _definitely_  both knew he had sex with Raven, there was really no need to repeat it.

She clears her throat, then gets back to work. He tries to do the same, but luckily, about ten minutes later, she makes up an excuse to go home anyway.

Maybe what they had will never be the same again; that easiness between them, like they'd known each other for years. Maybe he should just leave it good and well alone, let the relationship run its natural course. Instead, because he's weak, he texts her at 1 AM, asking if they can just start over.

He eventually falls asleep, only to wake up to a reply.

**CLARKE [07:02 AM]:**

> _sorry my mom came home last night. project tonight? x_

He texts her back an affirmative, and that evening they finish a good lot of the project, only to end up on the couch watching some action movie Clarke really enjoys. He doesn't  _love_  action movies, but he likes the cars and the way her breath catches when the suspenseful fight scenes start.

"So, how do you feel about your mom being back?"

Clarke finishes her mouthful of cheetos, swallowing tightly. "I miss her when she is away, but our relationship has been strained ever since dad died. He was always our buffer. I think part of her took the job because it meant we could have some space, between the two of us."

"Distance heals all wounds?" He offers, slightly lifting one of his shoulder.

"Something like that," she smiles, vague and he loves her for trying. "I would love to be as close with my mom as you are with Aurora." His mom went to bed earlier, after another double shift, but not before telling him goodnight, giving him a hug. He kissed her on the cheek, and that was that. It was nothing out of the ordinary for them, but apparently to Clarke, it was different.

"Her name is actually Amihan. She changed it because her job applications kept getting returned with refusal letters," he clarifies, something he usually doesn't bother telling anyone. Her facial expression remains a level on the spectrum of confusion, so he reveals, "I was an avid Cinderella fan when I was little."

"That explains a lot," Clarke muses, digging her hand into the bag of microwave popcorn in his lap.

"You know that in one of the original Cinderella's, the evil step sisters mutilate their own feet to fit into the glass slipper?" He reveals, holding on to the contents resting on his thighs as he stretches out an arm lazily. "I used to always think of Lexa like that."

Clarke raises her eyebrows. "Like she would mutilate her own feet to get what she wants?"

"No," he corrects her, brushing some popcorn of his chest absently, "Like my evil step sister out to ruin my life, you know, steal my happy ending."

"That was way less poetic than I thought it was going to be," Clarke retorts, and he knocks his knee into hers, teasingly, to which her grin only widens. She squints a little. "And Kane is like the evil step mom?"

"Maybe he was when he was with my mom, I don't know." He shrugs, because for some reason Lexa always bothered him way more than Kane did, probably because most of his life, he was barely even really confronted with him. She, however, was everywhere. He had to process that trauma back in the day by fantasizing about being in fairytales. He was like eight. "It's not  _that_ deep."

"I noticed," Clarke retorts, amused, and he turns his head to meet her eyes. The look between them lasts a little too long for comfort, so he elbows her, clearing his throat, then stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth. Once he's swallowed that down, he divulges, "You know, in some versions, the dad is actually completely aware of the abuse the stepmom puts his daughter through."

He didn't hear Octavia come downstairs, just feels her slap the back of his head. "Shut up, nerd. No one cares."

"I care," Clarke pipes up, and he actually believes she means it, too. "He makes history sound fun and I didn't think that was possible."

He ignores the tightening of his chest, the pride blooming behind his ribs, as Octavia plops down in between the two of them, dragging the bag of food over to her own lap. She pointedly ignores the blonde, instead immediately dives into her own issues, "What's up with Lexa? I'm worried."

"The hell do we know," he responds, irritated. He doesn't want to talk about her, especially not with Clarke here. He doesn't want to see her get all regretful and longing. "You're her girlfriend."

"Didn't she go to family therapy with her dad and mom?"

Bellamy's head snaps towards Clarke's, currently trying to catch a kernel of popcorn from her palm with her mouth and completely oblivious of his reaction. He didn't know they still talked so much.

"Yeah, and then the therapist—who I'm totally waylaying after hours to kick their ass—asked her if she even wanted to play soccer," Octavia responds, fingernails digging into her thigh before she continues through gritted teeth, "She told me she might  _quit_."

So that's why she was all emo kermit on the courtyard the other day.

"That's fucked up," he groans, his head falling back onto the couch. "We're so close to state finals."

Octavia glares at him and he clears his throat, sitting up. "I mean for her as well, obviously. Chill."

Clarke tries to choke back a laugh, but fails horribly, only toning it down when Octavia turns her glare on the blonde. "Sorry," she mumbles, leaning forward to grab her glass of cherry coke. The back of her top rides up a little, and he quickly looks away from the soft pale skin on her lower back. He has fucking issues, okay.

Then, his sister looks uncomfortable all of a sudden, sighing loudly. "Can't you just—I don't know—talk to her or something?" Which figures, because she isn't one to ask for help.

"What would I even—" Clarke starts, frowning, but Octavia cuts her off. "Not  _you_."

Bellamy almost chokes on his own spit then, turning towards his sister with a skeptical furrowing of his brow. "Me?"

"Yeah,  _you_." Octavia's jaw clenches, her nostrils flaring as she puts the bag of popcorn down beside the empty bag of cheetos on the coffee table in front of her. He and Clarke exchange a wary glance over her head. "You care about soccer almost as much as she does. You can kind of, sort of be insightful sometimes. Plus she's kind of like your sis—"

"Half," he corrects her, automatically, before she even finishes, running a hand through his hair. He knows Octavia has pretty much already decided this for him, and if he wants her to speak to him for the rest of his life, he has to follow through on it. But  _still_ , he has his reservations.

"What makes you think Lexa would even want to speak to him?" Clarke wonders, brow still furrowed into a frown. He's kind of grateful she asked exactly what he was thinking, so he doesn't have to face his sister's wrath on his own.

"She will,  _trust_ me," Octavia says, rolling her eyes, like Clarke didn't date Lexa for the past three years and she didn't just come into the picture a few months ago.

"I'll offer an olive branch, see if she's up for it," he reasons, pulling out his phone and saying a quick prayer that this will work out in his favor and Lexa just leaves him on read. "And if she does, it'll have to be on my turf."

"Your turf?" Clarke scoffs, humoured, "What's this? Mob Wives?"

"Great," Octavia concludes, taking the remote off the arm rest beside Bellamy. "Then it's settled."

Since practice is off and is off until further notice, him and his friends finally hit up the Ark again for a two-on-two match. It's what he invites Lexa to, under the guise of some friendly exhibition game to rally the troops and keep in shape now soccer is cancelled. To make her feel needed he even adds that they're with an uneven number of people and to make that even remotely true he forces Raven to come, even if she can't  _actually_ play. And to make sure Lexa doesn't feel threatened by being outnumbered, he tells her to bring her friends.

All in all, he still doesn't expect her to show up.

But she does. And they don't really talk, but they play. They play like never before. No fighting, or name-calling, or backhanded compliments. Just a friendly game between teammates. Lexa's team ends up winning, but that's only because Bellamy holds back on purpose. He doesn't need the reassurance, and she apparently does.

After everyone's scattered into smaller groups, talking about the match or school or their favorite video games, Lexa pulls him aside, expression stone-cold. "What is your angle here?"

"I don't have an angle," he responds, taking a swig of his canteen, as he tries not to sound too annoyed at her endless accusations. "I just wanted us all to  _enjoy_  playing again. As a team."

Cracks form in her armor, as she looks down at her feet, forehead wrinkling. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Finally she settles on, "Did she… Did she tell you... Anything?"

"Not much," he answers, gruff, offering her a water bottle from the Ark's cooler box. "Just enough to figure out you're thinking about quitting the team so close to finals."

It's not like he wants to emotionally blackmail her into staying, because he's not sure she even has emotions, but maybe if he throws her pride slash duty in there, it'll help.

Lexa takes the bottle from him, but doesn't open it nor does she attempt to take a sip. She plays with the plastic covering the cap, neat black polish covering her fingernails. "This is not about the team."

"What? It's about our dad?" Bellamy physically winces, it slipped in just like that, without his mouth even considering the implications of it.  _Our._  It's just that he's getting really tired of this. Why does everything have to be about fucking Marcus Kane? They're all their own persons, with their own lives, and he weasels himself back in them every time.

But he knows it's not as easy for Lexa as it for him to let go. Marcus raised her, not him. If this was his mom they were talking about, or hell, even Octavia—he would still feel the burden of responsibility, no matter what they did or said. He always carries that with him, might be part of who he is. It's the same for Lexa, really.

"I don't know." Lexa swallows, visibly, and she looks so normal like this; just a few smudges of dark-eyeliner left, old baggy Bikini Kill concert T hanging off her small frame, brown hair pulled completely back from her face in a bun. Sometimes he forgets they're the same age. Sometimes he forgets she's a person—not just the concept of one. A concept he created long before he knew her.

He makes sure to say it right this time. "Take your father out of the picture. Take out all of the pushing, the pressure, the training that you have to do to be as  _good_  as you are." Bellamy's tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes searching her face. "What do you want?"

Before she has time to answer, Miller hooks his arm around his neck, guiding him towards the exit of the field as he calls out a goodbye to Harper and Monroe over his shoulder. To his credit, Miller probably thought he was saving him from Lexa. They start walking home, soccer ball lodged under his other arm. He's smiling, with teeth, which is creeping Bellamy out. "What's wrong with you?"

"I made Jasper go live on Instagram and tag me in it."

Bellamy just looks over at him confused, so Nate rolls his eyes, smile completely gone now which feels so much more natural. The universe is back in balance, homeostasis has been achieved and Nathan Miller hates everything in the world. "You know my dad only follows me and the lead singer of Journey. He has his notifications on and everything."

Bellamy raises his eyebrows, actually impressed. Nate isn't usually one to sneakily scam someone, more someone who comes right out and says it. Especially with his dad. "So he saw?"

"He most definitely did. I'll just make sure to act all elated for emphasis when I get home so he pulls through and un-cancels practice, because I'm getting really tired of all this kumbaya shit."

He's not wrong. Bellamy gets where Coach Miller is coming from, but what he is asking of them is to basically force a friendship with everyone in the team and that's just not realistic. You can't get along with everyone. Especially not people from Mount Weather. Maybe he'll think this is enough progress, hopefully.

If Nate can acted elated enough, that is. Which sounds very impossible.

"That must be really challenging for you," Bellamy deadpans, "I thank you for your sacrifice."

Miller pulls his arm back, instead slapping him on the back of the head as he casually drops the major bomb that Harper made out with a Mountain Weather resident at a party last Saturday. Bellamy tries not to be offended they went to a party without him, even though he was hanging with Clarke. He's just a little possessive of his friends, and he doesn't want those MW assholes to corrupt them. Bellamy tries to grill him on who it was, but Miller was never one for many words. He liked gossip, liked to drop bombs, but not details, or talking.

Nate ends up pulling it off, though. Next Monday, practice is back on, and they're set to play a match on Friday against Go-Sci Academy. (Bellamy could kiss him, and he does, right on the cheek, smacking loudly, in front of the whole team.)

The game is a bonafide mess, however, which maybe—is now their brand, instead of an exception. It's raining, they're still not on their A-game and Kane comes, because  _of course_ he comes, and ends up yelling at Coach behind the sidelines for his game strategy when he decides to put Lexa on the bench fifteen minutes after halftime.

 _Bellamy_ understands he's doing it because Lexa mentally wasn't up for a whole game and he was trying to take the decision out of her hands, because she would  _never_ admit this herself.  _Kane_ apparently doesn't realize the state his daughter is in. Or doesn't take it seriously enough, or, maybe doesn't care. Especially since her last game, she collapsed on the fucking field.

"You are one hell of an inadequate son of a bitch, you know that, right?" They hear Kane yell at one point, mostly only distracting half the team from what they should be doing. Which is playing soccer.

Bellamy looks over at them, finds Kane with his face right up beside Coach's ear, screaming at him about his incompetence for everyone to hear. He sees Miller missing a pass to sprint over there, so Bellamy jogs after him. The referee whistles, halting the game as he goes to see what's up as well.

Marcus' nostrils flare. "Who do you think you are? You already gave away  _her_  starting position to that no-good, unwanted bast—"

It's nothing Bellamy hasn't heard before, really, but Miller still looks over at him to check if he's okay. Which might be worse. He doesn't care what Kane says or thinks about him, he cares about what his friends think about him. So it's mostly just shame, he feels, every time he's confronted with his father like this.

"Kane, back off," Coach barks, finally turning to look him in the face. Bellamy gives him props for still being so composed. "Before you say something you might regret."

"Oh," Kane scoffs, humoured, vile look on his face. "I have plenty things I regret, believe me. He is certainly on top of that li—"

Harper comes up from his side, already pushing up the sleeves off her long sleeved running shirt that she's wearing underneath her uniform, but Bellamy holds her back. From his other side, Monroe stills as well, crossing her arms over her chest. They don't agree with Bellamy, obviously, but they won't do anything against his wishes. And what he really doesn't want is for Harper and Monroe to get suspended over his problems.

"Dad, shut up!" Lexa cuts him off sharply from behind, angrily throwing her towel at his face as he turns towards the sound. Rain drips down her nose, her uniform drenched and her hair hanging flat from her head. "I told you, I don't  _know_  what I want." She holds up a hand, wavering, until she settles on, "Just— _shut up._ "

He looks stunned for a moment, then just shakes his head, huffing. "We'll discuss this at home. You're obviously not yourself right now."

"Obviously," Coach Miller bites back cynically, clipboard lodged underneath his armpit so tightly, Bellamy suspects it's taking everything in him not to hit Marcus with it over the head.

The tension is heavy, getting heavier with each drop of water hitting their skin, like a detonator ticking off the seconds before the bomb explodes.

"Back off my daughter, David," Kane snarls, turning back to Coach. He narrows his eyes. "I don't mind you playing daddy to one of my offspring, but leave the good one alone."

"Wow," Harper scoffs from beside Bellamy, unimpressed. " _Wow_."

"Is he seriously berating David for being a father figure to you while he was absent your entire life?" Monroe cynically asks for clarification, wiping some water from her face, even though they already know the answer.

"Yep," Bellamy concludes, dryly, eyes locked on the exchange between Kane and Lexa. He grabs her by the arm and she pulls it back, roughly, and practically everyone can hear her telling him she's not going home with him. Lexa then stalks off towards the locker rooms, and he can see Octavia breaking away from her cheerleading squad to follow her inside.

Harper squeezes Bellamy's shoulder supportively, eyes still locked on Kane kicking a trash can before storming off as well, muttering under her breath, "Dick."

Coach Miller breaks off his hushed conversation with his son, then nods at the referee. He whistles, and the game is back on. He's planning on not letting Kane ruin this game for him, like he has so many times already. But it still feels different. When he looks out at his left, he sees Anya. Somehow, it doesn't feel the same without Lexa out there.

Next Thursday, before school, he goes to get some training in before class, at the weights' room next to the gymnasium. It's no surprise he finds Lexa there. She was always first at practice, spend the most time conditioning, doing weight training. She's disciplined, even now. Now that she hasn't shown up to practice the entire week.

Lexa must notice him in the corner of her eye, because she sits up on her weight bench after putting the lifting bar back in it's holder, taking out her airpods. You wouldn't be able to tell just by looking at her, but he thinks she could easily bench press him if she really tried.

Bellamy sits down sideways on top of the bench beside hers, so he's facing her. She uses her towel to wipe some sweat of her brow, then just stares at him. She's good at that, staring, without feeling uncomfortable with the silence. He isn't.

"You think maybe you want to come back to practice soon?" He starts, careful, putting his bottle of water down at his feet. He has to force the next words out, wetting his lip to try and make his mouth feel less dry. "The team misses you."

Her expression remains neutral. "You should be the first to know. I'm quitting the team."

"What?"

"You wanted my world, you can have it."

God, not this bullshit again. "Lexa—"

Her jaw clenches, teeth gritting together. Then her face relaxes, and she calmly insists, "I made up my mind, Bellamy." Something in him tells not to push her right now. Besides, isn't this what he's wanted all along?

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can you at least text me the laundry schedule before everyone tries to bullshit themselves out of it?" And he ends up having to wash everyone's smelly socks every Saturday.

She nods, once, simple, fishing her phone out of the pocket on her leggings, tapping away. His phone buzzes, and he takes it out to confirm he got the message before he has to seek out another conversation with her after this one. It's not prefered.

He frowns, turning his screen towards her, "What do the asterisks after some names mean?" Like half of the team has one. Does it mean some sort of special treatment? Because he's  _never_ going to agree to that. If he has to touch Miller's dirty shorts, so does everyone else.

Lexa blinks at him. "When it's their turns, you can just drop it off at the dry cleaner and they'll reimburse the costs."

Oh, right. Of course. They're mostly people from Mouth Weather. Anya, Dax, Gael, Cabor. He rolls his eyes.

She clears her throat, uncomfortable. She looks like she might have something to say. He raises his eyebrows, and it's then she budges. "You put a witch behind my contact name?"

"Yeah," he huffs, humoured, stuffing his phone back into his shorts. She's not even going to mention the Lucifer pun then. "What did you put after mine?"

Lexa's forehead wrinkles, and she straightens her shoulders. "I would never resort to something so childish and petty."

"Is it the poop emoji?" He counters, apathetic.

She pouts, like she has to think it over, then exhales loudly. "It is, yeah."

Despite himself, he laughs, knocking his foot against hers playfully, and to his absolute surprise, her face cracks into the tiniest of smiles. He concludes, "Yeah, you're obviously the more mature one between us two."

"Wow, this is a sight I'd never see," someone says, breaking the moment between the two of them. Lexa scrambles up to her feet quickly, crossing the small distance between her and her girlfriend. Octavia looks surprised as Lexa plants her lips right on top of hers. Probably because it's in front of him.

"Come on," he hears Lexa mutter, pulling Octavia out of the weights room. His sister waves at him over her shoulder, and then they're gone. Lexa probably just feels ashamed they got caught. Like what the two of them were doing, which was having a conversation, was wrong. Like she slipped up, showed him a crack in her armor she wasn't supposed to, a weakness.

He shakes his head to himself, laying down to do some bench presses himself. Every time it's one step forward, two steps back with her. He accepts Lexa is like that, closed off—and apparently in the middle of an existential crisis now she doesn't have soccer in her life—but he doesn't appreciate her dragging his sister down with her.

After he comes back from school, his mom tells him Principal Wallace called because Octavia was skipping class. His little sister is kind of rebel, so it isn't the first time, but the fact she also skipped the drama club she literally just saved from extinction with a bake-sale and car wash worries him. A smidge.

A smidge on his scale of worrying is calling all of her friends and going out to look for her with his. Around 6 PM his mom calls the search off, tells him Octavia got home safely. Safe, but drunk. He can smell it on her as soon as he finds her napping on the couch. Which is—not like her at all. Her parents drank, she remembers that all too well. She always swore— _swore_ —she would never be like them.

His mom tells him Octavia's mostly fine, but that she has to leave for her shift since she is already late and that she'll talk to her in the morning. Bellamy nods, and promises to let her sleep it off. Doesn't mean he doesn't actively sit by her side the whole time, to be sure she is still breathing and not choking on her own vomit, and to be there when she wakes up.

When she does, he hands her a glass of water and an advil. She gulps it down in one go, groaning as she sits up, one hand pressed against her forehead. "My head is killing me."

"This has Lexa written all over it," Bellamy growls, because he can't avoid the confrontation even he should. He's worried about her, and yet again, Lexa has proven he can't trust her. "This isn't you, Octavia."

Her eyes shoot open, rimmed red, as she leans forward to slam the empty glass down on top of the coffee table. "Wow. Talk to me when you have your tattoo removed, dick."

Maybe he is a hypocrite, he doesn't know. Getting a tattoo wasn't up in his alley, to be honest, he still doesn't know what possessed him at the time. A lot of booze, probably. Something he is holding against Octavia now. Maybe he should let her make her own decisions—he just doesn't want to see her get hurt, or lose herself in the process.

"O—" He starts, apologetic, as she gets up from the couch. She turns around, throwing up her hands as she is quiet for just a second, collecting her thoughts, or railing in her temper, as she shakes her head lightly. " _No_ , Bellamy, you're always so goddamn condescending! You don't know her, so don't pretend that you do. If I didn't want to drink, I wouldn't have. You're my brother, I shouldn't have to tell you that."

She stomps up the stairs, and slams her door, which he really wishes she wouldn't do at every little small inconvenience in her life, because they have neighbours. Bellamy closes his eyes after falling down on top of the couch, leaning his head back on the back of it.

For some stupid, inexplicable reason he doesn't want to get into, he is drawn to his phone. Drawn to call Clarke. And for a second there, after the fifth ring, he thinks the universe might actually be on his side and made her busy.

"Bellamy?" She sounds more confused than surprised, hears a yawn in her voice.

"Hey." He manages to hold back for a beat, then, "Did Lexa ever pressure you into anything?"

"Uhm," she says, then lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. "Is this about Octavia?"

"Yeah, she came home drunk. On a Thursday. At 6 PM. After skipping school."

"I don't know," she starts, and he thinks that might actually be her whole answer before she adds, "Probably not."

That does nothing to appease him. He groans. "Probably?"

"Knowing Octavia, no one can really pressure her to do anything. And. Well," Clarke pauses, sighing hesitatingly before starting up again, "Well, if anything—Octavia's pressured Lexa. I mean, she goes out to have fun, doesn't just think about soccer all the time, talks to you in public."

Bellamy thinks it over, just the sound of Clarke's voice calming him, reminding him to take a deep breath. It  _is_  kind of true. Maybe he's just being stupidly overprotective once again. He tsks, almost disappointed at having to say, "Guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right," she answers, and he can hear the smile in her voice. It's quiet for a moment, just the sounds of them breathing. He hears her sharp intake of breath, then there's another pause before she finally speaks, doubt lacing her voice, "Me and Lexa… I don't know. We were together for so long, and we really loved each other, but it was never like this, you know? I guess between my dad and hers and everything else going on, maybe we just grew apart instead of together. I was too messed up about myself to help her with her shit," Clarke explains, sighing softly. He wishes he could take that pain away from her in that moment, wishes he could take it all on, wishes he could've protected her from all of it. "So I think it's good, that she found someone that helps her be someone besides Kane's daughter or captain of the Grounders."

Bellamy agrees. She is at least ten percent less uptight than she used to be. "Still wish it wasn't Octavia, but we can't have it all I guess."

She laughs, the sound soft and raspy at the same time, and he tries to tell himself it's no big deal. "Oh," she exclaims, like it's no biggie, like he can't hear the sadness mixed in with the faked gratitude. "My mom is leaving again. She gave me some very expensive brushes as a parting gift."

Sympathetic but blunt, he pushes, "Tried telling her you don't like her for her money?"

"Yeah, me and my mom aren't…" She cuts herself off, and he imagines her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, something he's caught her doing more often than not, always worrying about something. "We aren't that close." He wants to pry a little more, but she's already found a segue, "Besides, I don't mind having the house to myself."

There's a beat. "Maybe you could come over after the game tomorrow."

Did she just… His breath hitches in the back of his throat, and he's stammering out a 'sure', but she's already talking again, way too fast for his brain to process, "I can ask Raven, too, haven't seen her in forever. Maybe bring Miller and those cute girls always hanging around you?"

Since he already technically said yes, he can't very much say no now that she's clarified it won't just be him and her. They're friends, and hanging out just the two of them wouldn't be weird, unless he makes it weird now by saying it's what he would prefer.

"Okay, great," she concludes, but it sounds wary, even though she's the one who invited him. "It'll be fun."

He chuckles, trying to break some of the weird tension between them all of a sudden. "I hardly think you know how to have that, princess."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell at me, prompt me or discuss whether or not the ten year challenge was a ploy created by mark zuckerberg to train a facial recognition algoritm on aging. i know. mind: blown.


	3. but we don't have to change at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you can see i updated the chapter count to five, just because trying to assimilate an entire 24 ep season into three chapters was a bold move on my part. dont worry up ahead we still have a death scare, a car accident, a pregnancy scare, a cheerleading competition, a cheating scandal and some physical fights coming up hot. the k*rdashians really have nothing on one tree hill so call your mommy and tell her you love her bc it's gonna be a wild ride , !

They win the game on Friday, barely, but it's actually kind of weird without Lexa. Unnatural, almost. He thought the day he would miss seeing her out there on the field beside him would never come, but here he is; looking at Anya at a certain way that  _apparently_  doesn't exactly convey what he thought it did, not passing the ball right because Anya isn't exactly where he expected her to be, not being that extra little bit on edge because someone is constantly yelling at him what he is doing wrong. It's not that he misses her per se, it's just that he got so used to her.

He and Raven drive over to Clarke's house together, the latter fidgeting with his radio the entire time. They've been doing pretty okay lately—texting now and then, talking to each other at work, having lunch together—and he thinks that even if he doesn't have feelings for Clarke, him and Raven might still be better off just as friends. The sex was great, but she was even more awesome to hang out with.

His other friends already agreed to go to the after-party at Lexa's lake-house, even though she wasn't even at the match. Probably something Octavia put her up to. Anyway, he doesn't blame them for picking Lexa's elitist party over a hang-out at Clarke's—she wasn't exactly known for being fun.

When they get there though, Clarke is rushing outside, putting her jacket on haphazardly. He and Raven exchange a wary look, then she the first to ask, "What's going on, Griffin?"

"My mom—they called me—she never... She never arrived to the base," Clarke starts, erratic, then forces herself to take a deep breath, to make sense of it, pulling her hair from the back of her jacket. It's still wet from the shower. "There was a storm and a plane went down and they found a lot of unidentified bodies and they think—" She takes in a shuddering breath, pausing for a second, her shoulders stiffening, her fingers flexing. "They think one of them might be her."

They heard about the storm in North Dakota on the radio on the way over here. It destroyed hundreds of houses, injured even more, claimed a few lives already. He hadn't linked the fact Fort Azgeda was positioned in that general area and the storm together until she now mentioned it.

Her hands shake as she reaches to zip up her jacket, and despite everything in him telling him no, Bellamy steps forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She buries her face into his neck, taking a few deep, steadying breaths, then pulls back, wiping at her eyes with her thumb as she sniffs. Something determined washes over them. "I'm driving over there now."

"Clarke, that's a ten hour drive, at least," Raven argues, voice of reason, arms crossed over her chest while Bellamy clenches his jaw, trying to keep from snapping at her for being so reckless with her own life when she's already down. "And with the storm over there? That's going to add—"

"I'll go with you," Bellamy interjects, adamant, and Raven sends him a look like that's not what she meant  _at all_. She probably meant for her to just stay here until the storm blows over, but he knows Clarke, and he knows she's not going to sit idly by. It's safer if he just goes with her.

"It's fine. I'm fine," she brushes the both of them off, pulling her keys from her pocket, wrapping it in her fist. Her knuckles are white. "I'll text you guys as many times as I can."

"Woah. Woah. Woah," Raven says, holding up a hand to keep her from passing them by. Finally, the brunette figures it's no use arguing either. "Bellamy can go with you. I'll stay here in case anyone calls with an update."

Clarke nods, finally—after a long moment in which she searches Raven's face and then Bellamy's, probably realizing they're all too pigheaded to give in and they're wasting time pretending they aren't—breaking off the house key and giving it to the other girl, then nudges her head towards her car, already jogging down her porch steps. "Come on."

They're on the road for at least an hour before she finally speaks, before then the only sound the raindrops hitting the windows and the squeaking of the windshield wipers. He can practically hear her think, but he doesn't want to push her. She's usually very honest with him, he just needs to give her time to work through it on her own and decide if and what she wants to share.

"Thank you," she says quietly, gaze fixed ahead. At least there's some color back on her face compared to the paleness an hour ago. Clarke scrunches up her nose mockingly at the uncommon situation they're in. "For… Coming to look at a dead body with me, I guess."

Bellamy snorts, mostly distracted by the weather outside. "What's a little obduction between friends, right?"

He's been looking out of the window most of the ride. After texting his mom to explain the situation and that he probably won't make it home this weekend, of course, since he doesn't have an active filicide wish. She made him swear to be safe and then told him good luck, that she had a date and that Octavia was having dinner at Lexa's all in one text, so that was all a little bit hard to process. He'd been lost in thought ever since.

When Clarke doesn't respond, he turns his head to look at her, offering her a grin to make sure she understands it was a joke and his annoyed tone was just because of his own personal problems. The corner of her lip turns up, weakly, then she's looking right back out at the road.

Around one a.m., they reach the Queenia bridge linking their journey, about three hours away from Fort Azgeda. They're told it's closed because of the extremity of the weather, and that it won't reopen until nine in the morning. They advise them to rent a motel room for the night nearby, so they do.

There's a few motels on the mainroad, but Trikru is the only one with a vacancy, and comes with a single bed, one nearby vending machine and free rats, he suspects. It's a fucking Hallmark movie in the making.

"Not really your usual style, huh, princess?" He comments leisurely, watching her throw her jacket on the bed before observing the rest of the room, rubbing the back of his neck. God, this place is truly disgusting.

"No," Clarke grimaces, shuddering slightly as she pulls the covers back, then immediately draping them back over the bed. He can't help but think,  _oh, cute_ , even though it's nor the time or the place for it. "We're definitely sleeping  _on top_  of the sheets tonight."

"We?" Bellamy asks, eyeing the small double-sized bed that he thinks would sooner classify as a twin, as she starts untying her boots. He had already been toying between the floor or the three-legged chair in the corner. He didn't want to make this weird for her. He really did come along without any ulterior motives. Well, for her to stay alive, but he those are always his intentions when he hangs out with her so he feels it doesn't really count. He wants her to feel comfortable, safe. Especially—especially when tomorrow could be the worst day of her life.

"Look," she starts, looking up at him from where she's sitting, pulling off her right boot, her eyebrows raised nonchalantly. He almost always forgets Clarke is a pro at separating the emotional from the logical. "If I'm gonna catch some deadly virus from these sheets, so are you."

He snorts, starting to pull his grey Arkadia High sweater over his head so he's just in a black tee. His shirt rides up a little in the process and while fixing his hair, he looks at her, her eyes darting away quickly. "So what? If we die, we die together?"

"Together," she confirms, hoisting herself further into the bed so she can lay her head down on the pillow. Her hands come up to rest over her stomach, one hand playing with the wristwatch on the other, as she stares at the ceiling absentmindedly.

"She'll be okay," Bellamy offers softly, carefully laying down beside her after chucking his sweater somewhere on top of the chair. It almost collapses under the weight of it, so he thinks it's the right decision not to sleep on there tonight.

Clarke hums, neither affirmative nor negative, then after a few moments turns her head on the pillow to look at him. It's quiet for another minute as she searches his face. "You know this was my dad's?" She taps on the face of the watch, and he follows the sound with his eyes.

"I didn't," he admits, since she never told him. But it was too big on her, the glass broken, seemed too personal, she never went without it. "But I figured as much."

Clarke suddenly look back at the ceiling, and when he looks closer he can tell she's on the verge of crying, eyes brimmed with tears. His heart lurches in his chest painfully and he rolls into his side, propping himself up on his elbow as he pulls her into his chest, rubbing her back supportively. Bellamy wishes he could take it from her, the pain she feels, the uncertainty.

"I know we don't have the best relationship," her voice cracks eventually, muffled a little by his shoulder. His shirt feels wet beneath her face. "But I can't lose her, too, you know?"

"I know," Bellamy breathes, tightening his arms around her, running one hand over her messy braid. He hurts for her. He can't imagine what he would do if his mom, if Octavia—he can't. He holds her close until her sobs eventually subdue, and after, until her breathing evens out and the crease between her brows fades away.

His phone has buzzed about a million times over since he put it on silent, so regretfully, he lets go of Clarke, careful not to wake her up. He sits up on the side of the bed, scrolling through his messages, the sudden brightness stinging his eyes. It's mostly updates on the dinner from his sister. Apparently Marcus' parents showed up for his birthday and it was a whole mess.

**Octavia [08:51 PM]:**

> _grandpa kane just asked lexa how her knees were (which im pretty sure is a dig at marcus' injury) and i told them they were v v GREAT and marcus almost choked on his homophobic salad im living_
> 
> _guess who just asked about a certain bellamy blake the dining table? ur paw-paw and maw-maw_
> 
> _the tension is so THICC! i'm so happy i'm finally getting served the good drama_
> 
> _'at least aurora didnt run from her responsibilities' PFFFFFFFF im weak_

**Octavia [09:02 PM]:**

> _his mother refers to kane as marky-mark, write this down on my tombstone_
> 
> _his own mother just dead ass exposed him in front of his father lmfaoooo we stan a legend_
> 
> _'i wont let this game ruin my family again. ur knee injury in college wasnt permanent but i helped u pretend it was bc u didnt want to play anymore & now u want to judge ur daughter for the same thing?' -mother kane . DELICIOUS absolutely DELICIOUS_

**Octavia [09:36 PM]:**

> _omfg you will not believe this but lexa's mom is divorcing kane! guess god does exist_
> 
> _they've been lying all night to keep kane's father from having a seizure over lexa quitting soccer and them getting a divorce at the same time_
> 
> _'can u blame her?' A DIRECT QUOTE FROM GRANDPA KANE ABOUT THE DIVORCE I LOVE THIS FAMILY_

He sends her a quick text back thanking her for the updates, and that he takes joy in knowing Marcus is suffering. Honestly, he barely understood half of O's text messages but he doesn't love her any less for it. As an afterthought, he asks her how Lexa is coping with all of this. They are her parents after all, and divorce sucks. Plus by now he's figured out she does have some semblance of feelings.

Bellamy looks back out at Clarke, laying on her stomach with her face turned toward him, snoring softly. She looks so peaceful like this, making his stomach somersault, and he's careful not to wake her up as he lays back down beside her, making sure to keep a respectful distance. He doesn't sleep much that night, tossing and turning, waking up minutes after finally catching some shut-eye.

Around seven a.m. he wakes up to the sound of a crunching bag of potato chips. He peaks through one eye, trying to adjust to the light as he finds Clarke beside him, knees pulled up to her chest and her hair still wet from the shower. The bag of chips is in her lap, and she's zapping through the different channels on the tv.

He raises an eyebrow, both eyes opened now, as he pushes himself up so he can roll onto his back—which, fucking painful—scootch up and lean back against the headboard, mirroring her position. Still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he quips, "Breakfast of champions?"

Clarke hums, mouthful, brushing some hair behind her ear, and he takes a better look at the bag, skeptical. " _Pickle_  flavour?"

"Got you wasabi ginger," she says, leaning over towards the nightstand to grab a bag and throw it in his lap. His stomach churns—this motel was seriously the Worst. "As our drink of choice we have ice chips, some grape juice that's definitely beyond it's expiration date, or some more ice chips."

He puts the bag down beside him, suddenly not that hungry. "You're wearing my sweater," he states, taking a better look at her now he is not so hazed with sleep. It's kind of surreal to see Clarke Griffin, out of all people, with 'Polaris' plastered across her chest and  _his_  oversized clothes hanging on her small frame.

She looks down at her chest first, then swallows tight like she'd forgotten up until this point. "Oh, yeah, sorry," Clarke answers, cheeks turning pink, already making a move to pull it off, bag rumpling noisily as it hits the bed beside her. "When I went to get us food it was raining and my jacket doesn't have a hoo—"

"No, it's okay," he grins, covering her hand with his to stop her from lifting it off her body, his brown skin contrasting starkly with her pastyness. "I don't really get cold often." Plus, Clarke in his sweater is definitely doing things for him. Multiple things. Again, he doesn't want to make it weird—he really wishes he had more self-control and he wasn't so pathetic—so he forces himself to stop staring.

Hunger eventually beats out disgust and he chows down the ginger wasabi chips as they watch some russian cartoon they don't understand shit about trying to kill the time, shoulders pressed together as they share the bucket of ice chips. The bucket is actually just a tupperware container Clarke had in the back of her car, because she didn't trust the actual Trikru buckets not to give her salmonella. Which, fair point.

Around 8:30 they start collecting their stuff, and by 8:45 they're in the car, making their way back to the bridge. Around lunch time they arrive at Azgeda, the town the base is located in, and make their way over to the local hospital. They're send to the basement floor, and they have to wait there for fifteen minutes underneath a flickering lamp, staring at the metal doors of the morgue that may or may not have her mom inside it. It's all very morbid.

As the doors swing open and some doctor tiredly checks if she's Miss Griffin, Clarke takes a deep breath, following the white-coated woman inside. Her hand slips into his, and he squeezes tightly, letting her know he's there if she needs him.

The doctor asks them some basic questions, explains the situation again, then asks her if she's ready. Clarke gulps, nodding as tears fill her eyes. It smells like chlorine in here, and it's making him nauseous. Bellamy can't look as the doctor pulls the sheet back.

First, she lets go of his hand to cover her mouth, and his breath hitches in the back of his throat. Clarke sobs, turning to bury her face into his chest. His arms come to wrap around her frame, pulling her closer. Finally, this makes him look. It's not Abby.

"And?" Dr. Tsing, he thinks, asks impatiently, checking her watch. He shakes his head, thanking the doctor before leading Clarke back out of the metal doors.

He gives her a minute to collect herself, watches her run a hand through her hair, than scrub it over her face. She looks tired, bags under her eyes, all color drained from her face.

All of a sudden she seems to realize something as she brings her hand back down, her eyes widening in a panic. "My dad's watch—" Clarke shoves the sleeve of her sweater up, like it might be hiding somewhere, frantic. "It's gone."

He opens his mouth to ask her when she last had it, but she closes her eyes, pressing a hand to her forehead and rubbing a small circle, fingers shaking. "I took it off when I showered this morning—did I… Did I leave it?"

"Clarke—" He starts, but she cuts him off, shaking her head as her eyes pool with tears, all the tension she's felt the past twenty-four hours bubbling to the surface all at once. "Bellamy—I can't, I can't have lost it. My dad—"

"We'll stop by the motel on the way back. It has to be there," Bellamy ensures her firmly, putting his hand on top of her bicep, snapping her out of her downwards spiral "We'll find it, okay?"

She nods, once, then looks up at him, repeating the gesture more firmly as she reaches up to wipe at her cheeks roughly. A more determined look settles on her face, even though her lower lip still trembles when she opens her mouth to take in a breath.

On their way back to the motel, Raven calls him. His battery is low so they don't have time to get into the details, but Abby is safe. Her plane had to make an emergency stop and she had to leave everything behind, including her phone, but she just now managed to call home. She's fine.

Now all they need is Clarke's watch back, and then maybe he can start trying to coax a smile out of her. He checks the front desk, but all the bored woman behind it can offer them is the same room after informing them it hasn't been cleaned yet. They have to pay for it, even—and Bellamy would get in an argument about the fact he has to rent a room that they will barely spend five minutes in, but Clarke is literally on the verge of a mental breakdown beside him—so he just throws some dollar bills her way, snatching the key of the counter roughly.

As soon as he opens the door, Clarke pushes past him, throwing everything off the bed; pillows, covers, bedding. He's hardly sure she lost her watch under the matras, but hey, if she wants to check, all the power to her. He starts rummaging through the nightstand on his side of the bed, with no such luck.

Bellamy squats down, deciding to look under the bed on her side, and surely—beside a box of molded donuts, a shoe and what might be the carcass of a mouse—there it is. Her watch.

He grabs it, rubbing the dust off on his jeans before holding it up so Clarke can see it. She immediately bursts out in tears, relieved, taking it from him and sliding it back onto her wrist with shaking fingers. She blinks at it for a moment, like it can't be real, then looks up at him.

Immediately Clarke gives him a watery smile, then throws her arms around his neck, his automatically coming up around her waist. They sway a little from the force of her embrace, and he laughs into her hair.

She tilts her head back with a smile, then catches his gaze, any sign of amusement disappearing from her face all at once. His mouth feels dry all of a sudden, his palms sweaty, but he can't look away from her shiny azure eyes. They're still a little red from earlier, and God, it amazes him even now, how strong she is. How absolutely beautiful.

Clarke leans slightly up, just a little closer, the slightest of pouts forming on her face as her eyes flick down to his lips. The beginning of her name starts to form in his mouth, but she closes the rest of the distance, connecting their mouths. He'd anticipated it, but was startled nonetheless.

Just when she's about to pull away from him, he clasps her face in his hand, kissing her back, kissing her harder. Her mouth opens under the slant of his lips as he presses in closer to her. She tears herself away from him briefly to pull his sweater over her head, the tugs on the bottom of his shirt. He grabs it by the back of his neck, complying eagerly, moving it over his head in one swift movement before rejoining their lips again.

His hands slide up her back, and down, palming her ass, a small sound escaping from the back of her throat that he's all too happy to swallow. Her fingers slide up his chest slowly to rest on his shoulders, digging into his skin as he begins to back them up. The back of her knees hit the end of bed, their mouths still moving together hastily, and they fall on top of it.

He moves his hands up her sides, taking her shirt with him until it's bunched up under her armpits and the cups of her bra are free game, while he leans down to peck the corner of her mouth, her little aggravating beauty mark, her jaw, down her neck. Her legs hook around his hips, nails still digging into his skin like she's guiding him, letting him know what she likes.

Bellamy pulls back a little, looking down at her, just to check if it's real. She smiles at him, and his chest constricts painfully. It's so fucking real. She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, fingers moving down his neck and shoulders lightly, raking down his biceps. Then she freezes and he's reminded of the last time they did this, when she kissed him and told her he liked her, the vacancy washing over her face, the way she refused to look him in the eye. His stomach drops.

"We should go," Clarke says, short, pushing him off her as she smooths over her hair and pulls her shirt back down over her stomach. She gets up from the bed, throwing him his shirt without even so much as looking at him. He rolls over onto his back with a frustrated sigh, leaning back on an elbow as he uses his free hand to adjust his pants a little. He figures it's just her being scared again, her running away again, but then he closing his eyes in defeat as they fall on the tattoo on his forearm.  _Fuck_.

She informs him she'll drive the remaining four hours, and the tension is weird, between the two of them, now. Her lips are still red from kissing, her hair messy, and he's sporting the most awkwardly painful wood in his life, and she refuses to meet his gaze or even speak more than a word to him. Every time he starts up a conversation, she cuts him off, or narrows her eyes at the road, so eventually he gives up trying.

They don't pull up to her house until it's dark out. She kills the engine, but stays in her seat, hands on the steering wheel. "Me and Raven—" he starts—wanting to at least have the chance to explain himself, explain them, now that she's ready to hear it—tongue darting out to wet his lips, keeping his gaze fixed on her driveway.

Clarke cuts him off, sternly, eyes dark and voice not even wavering in the slightest. "We just got carried away. It meant nothing."

He frowns, looking at the side of her face even if she refuses to look back at him. She's deciding this again, deciding what it was, what they are. He's tired of it. His voice is hoarse as he questions, "Didn't it?"

Her hand freezes on the door handle and she swallows, tight. Then softly, taking in a shaky breath, she admits, "Of course it did." Before he has a chance to process her words, she's opened her door, meeting Raven in the middle of the driveway with a hug and leaving him blinking at the driver's seat in something he can only describe as disbelief.

He eventually drives Raven home in his car, once she's updated Clarke and transcribed the entire phone conversation three times over. She leans her head on his shoulder on the way there, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. She stayed up all night in case Abby called and then spent the day waiting for them to get back safely and fixing everything in the Griffin house. "I'm  _wrecked_."

He makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, distracted by his own thoughts. Does Clarke seriously think he's hung up on Raven, that the tattoo means anything more than a drunken night out, that she has some sort of claim on him? Even worse, does Raven think the same thing? Does he just not understand how girls think at all?

"Rave," he sighs, his need to understand getting the best of him in the end. "We're okay, right? Like—you know I like you as a friend?" Bellamy almost cringes at the way he tacks on the last part, but he needs to know for sure. What if all this time he's been giving her signs, and he just didn't realize?

She pulls away slightly to look at his face, her own scrunched up in what he thinks is slight disgust. "Don't flatter yourself, Blake. I'm simply  _allowing_ you to be my friend."

He grins at that, shoulders sagging immediately as she lowers her head back down. "Okay, good."

He can't see her face from this angle, but he doesn't need to. He can imagine the indifference on it all the same. "What's bringing this on? Something happen between you and Clarke?"

"No," he starts off firmly, feeling her jaw clench against his shoulder. He relents. "Maybe." He relents some more, letting out a deep breath. "Yes."

Raven lets out a disgruntled noise, pushing herself off him. She hold her palm up anticipatively. "Give me your phone."

"What?" A crease appears in between his brows as he looks in his rearview mirror before stopping in front of a stop sign, give her a preoccupied but firm answer. "No."

"Fine, I'll take it myself," Raven states, already digging her small skilled fingers into the pocket of his jeans until he slaps her hand away. He figures it's no use fighting her, and fishes it out himself as best as he can while driving and lifting his hips in the air, chucking it over to her. She scrambles to catch it, letting out a small ' _oof_ ' as it hits her right in the sternum.

"Code?" She ponders, impatient, making a face at his home screen. It's a picture of him and Octavia, from way back when she came to live with them and he took her to Becca's Diner for the first time. His mom snapped the picture, their mouths full of fries, and it was grainy and dark and probably taken with a calculator, but he found out later that Octavia printed it out and kept it in her diary as a reminder of the first time she actually dared to hope a family would keep her. Ever since then it's been his favorite picture.

"Your birthday."

Raven deadpans. "Very funny."

"What?" He snorts, voice laced with sarcasm as he puts on his blinker and looks over his shoulder before taking a left. "I really enjoyed our night together."

"Glad I could be your first," she replies, dryly, then manages to unlock his phone anyway, seemingly already having figured out the passcode is Octavia's birthday. "God, you're so predictable, it's pathetic."

Bellamy groans, trying to somehow keep an eye on the road and Raven at the same time. She's such a fucking brat. "What are you typing?"

Raven explains as much, turning up the radio and bobbing her head along to the beat of some Shakira song.

**BELLAMY [10:34 PM]:**

> _clarke can i call you? we need to talk_

It's a pretty okay message everything considered, knowing what she's capable off.

"Three dots," Raven updates him, thumb lodged between her teeth as she leans her elbow against the frame of the window. She must feel the anxiety physically radiating off him. He never used to be this way with girls. He wasn't like this with Raven. He was never like  _this_  with Roma, his first girlfriend, either. He used to be smooth, certain of himself. Now he was just—a mess.

**CLARKE [10:36 PM]:**

> _just forget about it_

"Ice cold," Raven cuts in as she finishes dictating Clarke's text out loud, hissing a little.

"Whatever," he mutters under his breath, not being able to help feeling just slightly disappointed at her answer. Angry, too.  _Of course it did_. It keeps echoing in his head, over and over, and he's trying to make sense of it, but he can't. If it meant something, then why? Why would she want to forget?

"How do you  _really_  feel?" She asks him, and because she's Raven, can't keep judgement from coating her voice. He doesn't have to look over at her to know she's cocking an eyebrow, staring him down.

He stops for a red light, hand resting on the gear stick as he shakes his head slightly, trying to collect his thoughts. Frustrated, "Like—like she always gets to call the shots. She decides what we are, how we feel, what we should forget. I can't forget it." His voice softens as he puts the car in drive, letting it roll towards the intersection. "I don't want to."

Raven gniffles, almost in pleasure, thumbs tapping away on his phone. "Oh, she'll  _love_  that, trust me."

He turns his head to the brunette, half-heartedly trying to swat her hand away from his phone. It's no use trying to change Clarke's mind once she's made it up. He might not always understand her, but he knows that much, at least. "Please don't say that. It sounds really pathe—"

All of a sudden, Raven reaches out her arm to push him back, yelling, "Bellamy, watch out!"

He doesn't hear it, just feels it at first. The giant blow on the side of his car, the way the vehicle spins in circles before coming to an abrupt stop, the sick sounds of something human breaking. Just as the world turns black, he vaguely registers the whooshing sound of a message being sent.

**BELLAMY [10:38 PM]:**

> _what if i don't want to forget?_

.

He hears someone call his name, fades in and out of consciousness, hears someone say ' _he's my son_ ' but it's not his mom, it doesn't  _sound_  like his mom, and when he tries to open his eyes to check, there's just more darkness. All he feels is a raging pain in his hip, the unfamiliar throbbing of something decidedly not right in his veins, something is wrong, something is terribly wrong.

When he finally  _is_ able to open his eyes, a blurry Octavia is at his bedside, but she's not looking at him. She's looking angry, and as soon as his hearing kicks in, she's sounding angry too. "—basically admitted that it was just to get to you. So you don't get to do this, Bellamy. You need to help me TP her house, or like, slash her tires. Cut off all her hair while she sleeps, even though she'd still look good, obviously. I don't know. I'm just. You have to wake up."

He tries to move his lips or lift a finger, anything, produce a sound or a sign, any at all, to let her know he's right there, that he'll gladly sign Lexa up for all kinds of junk mail that'll take her hours, if not days, to unsubscribe from, everything just to make her happy, but a machine beeps beside him, and his eyelids feel too heavy to keep open, and his head feels all stuffy.

He doesn't know how long he sleeps, how long he's unconscious. One time he wakes up, and a nice nurse is rebandaging his arm while his mother holds his other hand. He can't really talk, and they seem to understand, mention something about pain meds he can't register, and he only lets the weariness take over again when his mother whispers it's okay. Another time, he  _sort of_  wakes up, he thinks, and sees leprechauns walking around his bed, dribbling basketballs. It might be a dream, he's not sure, but it feels real, so fucking real, so he forces himself to go back to sleep.

The first time he fully wakes up, it's not his mom by his bedside, or his sister. It's Lexa. He hears her talking to him—if you can call it that—it's more a string of mutters that he has to try really hard to make out, but doesn't actually start to process until he hears his sister's name.

"Octavia really needs you. And she won't talk to me right now. So. You should wake up. Then she can talk to you." There's a self-hating groan, and some even less deciperable muttering about something being stupid and then he finally manages to peel open his eyes.

"Lexa?" Bellamy croaks out, blinking at the sudden brightness. His voice feels scratchy, his mouth dry, and his tongue darts out to try and wet his cracked lips. His whole body aches, but he guesses he's alive and he should be happy about that at least.

"You're awake," she states, no real emotion attached to it like relief or gratitude (but not disappointment either, so that's good, he thinks), fingers wrapping around the alloy side-rail of his bed, knuckles white. Her long wavy hair is down, and she looks very pale, almost reminding him of that character from the grudge. He might even involuntarily crack a smile at that image, because her gaze darkens.

"What's so funny?" Lexa pries, offended, pushing some hair behind her ear. "How much of what I said did you actually hear?"

He tries not to smirk, but it just happens, even if he's dying on the inside. "Just that you care about me."

"Hilarious," she snaps, hostile, but he can see the flush creep up her neck. It's cute. She does care if he breathes enough air to see another day. She just doesn't want him to know about it.

He tries to reach for the cup of water on his night stand, but Lexa swats his hand away, grabbing the cup herself as she holds it out in front of his face with a glare. He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.

"Don't get any ideas," she offers as an afterthought, softer than he's used to with her, moving the straw so he doesn't have to strain his neck too much. "I'm mostly here for Octavia."

That's fair, he guesses.

"How's Raven?" Bellamy asks, groggy as he tries to move up his bed a little, a wave of nausea and agony hitting him all at once, but he pushes it away.

"She's fine, actually. Just a little bruised up. You took most of the impact," Lexa smiles, and it looks uneasy, unnatural. It takes him a second to realize she's not revelling in his pain but trying to tease him. "Always have to be the center of attention, huh?"

Bellamy tries to nod self-deprecatingly, but a thin layer of sweat starts to cover his skin, and he can't push it away any longer. "I'm going to—throw up," he manages to get out, pushing himself into a sitting position, Lexa's eyes widening comically as she grabs the nearest thing, not the kidney dish on the counter by the sink or the sickness bag on his nightstand, but a vase, thrusting it over at him as she holds the flowers in her hand tightly.

He empties the content of his stomach in there, just because he doesn't want to throw up all over himself and ruin some nice nurses' day. Lexa's face scrunches up, and she tries to hide a gag behind her hand. He's about to ask if she's okay, but then before he knows it, she's hurling into a trash can, and he's trying not to choke on his own laughter, maybe a little delirious from the meds, not even caring the way it hurts his whole body with each shake.

Once she's done, she looks up at him over the edge of trash can, strangling it practically, eyes dark and mascara smudged under them, a string of spit still connected to the garbage bag until she wipes it away with the back of her hand, pointing a lean, threatening finger at him with the other, "You don't talk of this to anyone.  _Ever_. You hear me?"

.

As soon as he's awake, there's a lot of information flying at his head. His hip was dislocated and his femur was broken, but they put a pin in that so he can put his weight on it and use it like he normally would. There might be some nerve damage, but it's too soon to tell. A doctor comes to perform a tertiary examination, just to be sure they haven't missed anything, and as soon as it's cleared up they haven't, the nurses and a physical therapist have him out of the bed and into a chair.

Octavia slaps the back of his head, then cries, then checks if he didn't have a concussion on his long list of injuries, then slaps him again, exactly in that order. His mom won't stop crying either, which is more horrific than the entire accident to start with. Raven brings him a care-package, which mostly just consists of soup. Which—he's not sick. He's injured.

"Sorry," he mumbles, still staring at her handwritten card. It just says that he shouldn't ever fucking do something like this again, at least not with her present in the car, and her name is signed below it. "I'm—I'm just really sorry."

"As much as I love watching you suffer, this wasn't your fault," she snorts, corners of her lips turned down bitterly. "That asshole ran a redlight."

"Fucking sucks," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. Or he tries to, before all the wires connected to his skin get tangled and he gives up in fear of forcefully removing one. "I'm glad you're okay. Really."

"Of course I am. I'm Raven fucking Reyes," she boasts, like it's her secret superpower, then she climbs into the bed beside him, wincing just slightly as she has to lift her leg in manually, pulls out her phone, and starts up Netflix. "Don't get too mushy, okay? We both know I'm not the one you're in love with."

"No," he presses, rolling his eyes, "but I still love you and would prefer for you not to die."

She looks up from her phone with a judgemental look, nudging him the ribs with her elbow. "You really are a sap. I love you too. Platonically." Raven smirks. "Now, Fast and the Furious marathon or is that too soon?"

"Very funny," he mumbles, leaning his head back onto the pillow as she snickers, obviously amused with herself, scrolling through the different categories. It's nice, to be distracted for once and not have to do something. He's constantly being lived, all sorts of medical personnel coming into his room and making him do things, which, great, he wants to recover, but also, he's tired. He lifts his head back up, something suddenly dawning on him, brows scrunching together. "Hey. Do you remember if my mom was there, with the paramedics?"

"No, I don't think so," she replies, confusion washing over her face as she tries to think back on the accident. "Unfortunately I was awake the entire time, I just couldn't move. I tried to get to you but —" Her eyes widen, slightly, her shoulder stiffening. Something's off. "You do know who dragged you out of that car, right?"

He shakes his head slightly, frown still apparent. He literally can't remember anything besides waking up in the hospital. And maybe before that the voices. But he's still not sure that actually happened. It might just be a case of the leprechauns again.

Raven winces. "It was Kane."

He pushes himself up, shoulder brushing against hers, as he starts shaking his head. Violently. "No fucking way."

"How much crack do they have you on?" She bites back, not very heated, just regular Raven heated, "I just told you I was awake the entire time. You might not like it, but he was there, and he pulled both us out of that wreck. He gave them permission to operate on your leg."

Now he just wishes he'd died. The last thing he wanted was to owe that man anything more than he already did, to give him one more thing to hold over his head. Fuck. He snaps, going through the five stages of grief in a span of maybe fifteen seconds but relapsing back to anger every time, "That's just amazing. Just so fucking great."

"While you were going through your little existential crisis there I've picked out Clueless and you've lost the right to argue," she replies, unbothered, obviously not in the mood to talk about this as she leans her head on his shoulder, stifling a yawn as she balances the phone on her good knee. "It's starting now and I refuse to answer any questions you have so you better pay attention."

He just grumbles an affirmative. Anything to not have to think about his fucking father.

As soon as he's eating and drinking like he usually does most of the machines are disconnected, and once the pain is under the control, all of them are, and he's told he can go home soon, just needs to finish his antibiotics treatment. Once that's done, he's discharged after a mere week in the hospital.

He has to use crutches for a while and do a few exercises every day to keep the muscles of his joints and foot supple, but his leg is doing much better than the first time they forced him to stand on it. They let him take some serious painkillers home, but he refuses to take those, having heard enough horror stories about people getting addicted to those things—mostly Raven—and it's really not worth it. Tylenol will have to do.

Bellamy's taking a break from doing his exercises one day—maybe pushing himself a little  _too_ hard he realized as blood starts to seep through the dressing pads covering the small wounds from surgery—plopping down on the couch beside Lexa and Octavia. They're playing a videogame on his playstation, Spider-Man, from the looks of it. Ignoring him at first.

"O, would you mind getting me some new bandages?" Bellamy finally flat out asks, since they're either too engrossed in the game or just blatantly trying to pretend he doesn't exist. He's pressing a towel to his thigh, but his hand is still covered in blood, so she gets the message as soon as she turns her head to look at him.

His sister rolls her eyes, shrugging Lexa's arm off hers shoulders as she pushes herself off the couch. "You're such a stubborn ass, you know that?"

"I love you, too. Thanks," he calls after her as she disappears into the kitchen. He realizes he's now just sitting next to Lexa. Which is still not a situation he's very accustomed to, nor ever will be, he thinks. She clears her throat, keeping her eyes fixed on the television.

"I take it you two made up?" He asks, mostly just to fill the silence, wincing as he adjusts his leg a little so his muscles don't have to clench so hard to keep from hurting the wound. His mom would kill him for getting blood on their couch. He just wants—wants to be back to himself. As soon as possible. With Lexa not playing and Raven permanently off the field, they need him. The team needs him. And he's going crazy without being able to play soccer.

Her face doesn't give anything away. Finally, she says, "Sort of."

He decides not to push, but he's trying really hard to figure out how you can  _sort of_  make up with someone. Knowing his sister, she's a stubborn ass who'll hold something over your head for years, maybe forever, if she gets the chance. It's none of his business though. "Okay."

Her hands wring together in her lap, then she makes herself stop. Lexa tilts her head, just enough to look at him. "You know what I wished for when you were in the hospital? That it was me."  _Oh_. So they're skipping the weather and going straight to his accident. It really is all or nothing with this girl. "Before you get any ideas, it wasn't because I wanted to save you—but—I wanted an easy out from playing soccer."

He doesn't know how he became her go-to person for soccer advice, but he understands. It must be hard to talk to those friends of her, they don't seem very compassionate, nor like they could even begin to grasp what Lexa's feeling. They mostly don't have feelings, he's sure. He leans his head back onto the couch, feeling a little dizzy from the pain. Bellamy swallows, hoping to fix the dryness in his mouth. "There's always going to be a reason why you shouldn't quit. Your father, Coach Miller, the team—none of it matters. You have to do what feels right for you."

"I'm not used to doing what feels right," Lexa admits, looking uncertain and uncomfortable, maybe even a little shy, like it's some big revelation she's managed to keep secret all her life. "I make decisions with my head. Not my heart."

"Yeah, I got that," he chuckles, softly, and he wants to bring up Kane, ask her if she knows he's the one who dragged him out of a burning car, but then Octavia is padding back into the living room with their first aid box and a bowl of water, breaking the moment. Suddenly it feels awkward again, especially when his sister sends them a funny look. She doesn't push, however, for once, and for that he's thankful.

That Monday, he goes back to school for the first time. The mom side of his mom wanted him to stay home longer, but the Asian side of his mom fell for the ' _I don't want to get behind on all my classes_ ' argument he made hook, line and sinker.

He's barely made it into school premises—having ridden to school with Octavia and Lexa of all people (it's a miracle they didn't get into his second accident within two weeks) and half-waved goodbye to them (mostly Octavia) over his shoulder—when someone calls out for him. At least, that's what he assumes, that it's directed at him.

Lexa sends him a weird look, but Octavia continues to pull her away from him and towards their school building, hands intertwined. The car bleeps behind him as she locks it with the press of a button, like some sort of afterthought.

"Hey asshole!" The voice repeats, and when he awkwardly manages to turn he realizes Clarke is trying to close the distance between them, stuffing her car keys into her backpack blindly. "Seriously?" The blonde continues, once she's standing in front of him, just slightly out of breath from catching up with him. She pushes against his chest, not hard enough to knock him over, but close. "You had to get into a car crash? How fucking dramatic can one single person be?"

"I did it just to get your attention, yes," Bellamy says, dryly, shouldering his backpack up higher. He left his crutches at home, mostly as a form of silent protest against his own body, but now that he's standing on his leg for longer than a minute straight and he hasn't even started first period, he's kind of starting to regret it.

"That's not what I meant," she replies, anger deflating completely. She watches him take a step back so he can lean back against Lexa's shiny expensive car—that luckily is so expensive it parks on it's own—worry washing over her face. He can tell she's forcing herself not to say anything, biting down into her lip, fingers curling into a fist, the slight tick of her jaw.

"Why didn't you visit?" He asks, mostly curious, trying not to sound judgmental. If she was so worried, he means. And maybe he does sound judgmental, and needy too.

Clarke opens her mouth, hugging her arms to herself, then closes it soundlessly. Finally, eyes raking his face, she settles on, "I wasn't sure you'd want me to come."

"Clarke," he starts, sputtering lightly at the incredulity of that statement. Was he not clear before? Was she seriously so naive? Did he have to spell it out? It didn't matter how many times they fought, or she rejected his advances. He would never not care about her. "I will—I will  _always_ want you to come."

"I did," she blurts out, closing her eyes in defeat as her shoulders stiffen like she's bracing herself for impact. "I did come. But you were unconscious at first, and then I tried again and Raven—she was in bed with you. So I figured—I figured I wouldn't bother."

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Not this  _again_. Maybe he should be spelling it out for her. "You got that all wrong. We're just friends."

She doesn't look all that convinced, arms still crossed over her chest, barely bothered by the wind blowing her hair from behind her ears and into her face slightly. "Friends with matching tattoos, huh?"

Bellamy groans, out loud, almost petulant. "I'll get one with you right now if it'll make you shut up about that."

There's a beat between them, then he watches her swallow tightly, her mouth opening slightly. It takes another second before she forces out, surprisingly steady, "So you that's what you want? To be friends?"

The tension between them grows thicker which each silent second that passes. He adjusts his leg, clenching his jaw as he does, then he takes a step forward, so he can reach out and push her hair back from her face and tuck it behind her ear. He leaves his hand there, pressed against her jaw, and she leans into his touch, just slightly. Bellamy's tongue darts out to wet his lips, not sure how to really put it into words, so he just goes with, "I never wanted to be friends with you."

The corners of her lips turn up, and she chokes on the beginning of a laugh, finally uncrossing her arms. He thinks his backpack duds to the ground beside him, but his pulse is rattling so quickly, he can barely see straight. One hand sneaks up to wrap her fingers around his wrist, and then she closes the distance between their faces, leaning her forehead against his. She closes her eyes, a crease between her brow forming. "I was so worried. When they told me someone ran a redlight and hit you—"

Oh fuck. He completely—shit. Her dad. That's screwed up. He hates it. He hates that he did to her.

"I'm sorry," he says, mostly out of habit, even if it does nothing for her to take away her pain, or the anguish she must've felt in that moment, or to bring back her father.

"And the last message you sent me?" Clarke opens her eyes, leans back a little so she can look at him better. He vaguely registers the second bell ringing, but fuck him if he cares. "I felt like such a dick."

"You  _are_ a dick," Bellamy agrees, but he's grinning. He feels like he's allowed to make fun of her for the text she sent him before that.

"Please just kiss me before I change my mind," she mumbles slightly irked, eyes flicking down to his lips, warm breath fanning across his skin. He won't need to be told that twice. He leans down, his free hand coming up to cup her other cheek, connecting his mouth to hers.

She's somehow taken back at first like she's actually surprised he pulled through, but quickly adjusts, drawing him closer, kissing back with enthusiasm.

"Was I on time?" He asks, breathless, but only after air becomes a definite necessity and his leg starts throbbing hard enough to distract him from Clarke's soft mouth beneath his.

"It was a close call," she responds, grinning stupidly, taking his hand off her cheek and intertwining it with hers as the other drops down beside him. "But you've made some strong arguments."

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [hmu](http://www.safeands0und13.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell, prompt me, or desperately watch me romanticize the 6x02 choking scene and not giving a flying poop about it<3


	4. taken different paths and travelled different roads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes its me! i updated! who else gasped? sorry it took so long, but this one is 12k so i overcompensated per usual :)

Since he's not cleared to play for their next game, he sits beside Lexa in the stands, yelling at the referee and supporting their friends. Reminding them to do better, in Lexa's case. (Which: still fucking weird to share things with her? Like  _friends_.)

It's literally killing him to watch the game from the sidelines, especially since they're barely winning at the moment and they used to be undefeated.  _Undefeated_. He just wants to go in there and help them, if only his injury would let him. Instead he's jumping at every chance he has to give them advice, straining his leg for the better part of the game even though he shouldn't be, until Lexa has to be the one to help him sit back down, his arm slung over her shoulder. Neither of them likes it, but they would both hate it more if he fell over and broke his next limb. Which is still progress for them, believe it or not. There were days he'd rather be hit by a truck if the options were a) get hit by a truck, and b) not be hit by a truck but having to hold eye-contact with Lexa longer than half a second. They're reluctant acquaintances at this point.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Kane snarls, once he's done glaring at some kid until he scrambles away and makes room for their loving father to sink down on the concrete beside his daughter. Luckily, he mostly sits there in silence for the next ten minutes. Bellamy is glad Lexa is pissed off enough at her father that they can finally tag-team their way through ignoring him to death.

(At one point, Lexa even asks him, out loud, in front of her dad, breaking him off mid-soccer-rant, "Do you hear a fopdoodle? I think I hear a fopdoodle," and Bellamy doesn't know what it means, but it makes Kane shut up alright. He googles it later, and apparently it's some ancient Shakespearean insult that he's definitely stealing.)

The score's 1-2 in the enemy's favor once half-time starts. Since Coach Miller banned him from the locker room claiming he's a distraction—he texted Nate his pep talk anyway, hoping his friend will at least do a dramatic reading of it and some words stick amongst his teammates regardless—he's present when Octavia comes over to talk to Lexa after the cheerleaders finish their routine. He doesn't even make a face. He's growing as a person.

He waves over at Clarke in support, who's being scolded by Ontari for God knows what, but the blonde looks positively unbothered, rolling her eyes as she sweeps past her captain and comes over to them instead.

She ducks down below the iron barriers and squeezes in between him and whoever it is that is sending him daggers right now. A clueless Clarke pulls her knee up to her chest, resting her foot on the bleachers so she can re-tie her shoe laces. He watches her movements, musing, "Is the she-devil giving you a hard time?"

"She's still holding a grudge over my outburst weeks ago and I've tried to explain—" She sighs heavily, cutting herself off, her hands moving more jerkily now as she raises her eyebrows mockingly, adding, "But she said mental health is a myth."

"Yeah, classy," Bellamy snorts, then it fades, morphing into a frown, "I think she tried to roofie Monroe at a party one time actually." She didn't succeed, obviously, but he'd almost punched her in the face if it hadn't been for Harper beating him to it.

"Do I even have to say who she would've voted for had she been of age?" Clarke quips, lowering her foot and letting Bellamy put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his chest. Her hand comes up to cover his with her own. "Nah, I think that was obvious from the way she still calls Gaia Giselle unprompted."

Clarke laughs, then her shoulders deflate as she shifts up to gauge his mood. "I bet it sucks, huh, being up here while you really want to be out there," she asks, softer, looking out at the field. The team just came back out from the locker rooms and are now in the middle of doing some warming-up exercises.

"It's not ideal," he settles on, shaking his head slightly as he follows her gaze. "Part of me just wants to blackmail Miller into letting me back onto the team."

"Absolutely not, Bell," Clarke opposes forcefully, pushing herself off his abdomen to get a better look at him, squinting at him through her lashes. Her dark ocean eyes and hoarse tone are equally heated. "Your leg needs time to heal. If I see you out there, I'll drag you off the field myself."

"Jesus." He chuckles, humoured and a little surprised, using his thumb to wipe some of the face paint off her cheek where it smudged. It used to be a G, after their team name, but now it's more like a regular O. She's cute when she's upset, her small nose scrunches up and her brows crease together. "I'd like to see you try."

"There's something I would like to try, later," Clarke smirks at him from under her lashes, voice low as she puts one hand on top of his knee, teasingly. Her fingers shoot heat straight up his spine. "If you're up for it."

Bellamy raises his eyebrows, biting back a smile as he practically swallows her small hand with his own. "What about my leg? I thought you were concerned."

Her smirk widens. "I'll do most of the work, promise."

He opens his mouth to answer just as the referee whistles, and he can practically  _hear_ Ontari stomp her feet from 50 feet away at his sister and hopefully girlfriend, "Griffin! Blake!"

Clarke forces a smile on her face, a little too bright and showing a little bit too much teeth to be natural, saluting Ontari's back. "Time to save some lives," she announces, cynically, pushing herself onto her feet. Her fingers wrap around his shoulder, his hand automatically coming up to wrap around her hip, as she leans down to peck him on the lips, briefly.

He can feel Lexa stiffening beside him, but she doesn't say anything, just keeps her gaze fixed straight on where Octavia is walking back to the squad already. Kane actually cackles at this point, almost choking on a piece of popcorn he's been smacking on resentfully the entire game. "Oh, I see. Going for my daughter's sloppy seconds in every conceivable way of the phrase, huh?"

The ugly sneer on his face makes Bellamy suspect he's just lashing out because he's angry over Lexa not talking at him, but frankly, he doesn't care what reason he has. Clarke is no one's object.

"Excuse me?" Clarke shifts her head to look at him, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief at his words.

"What?" Marcus barks, just as hostile like he isn't absolutely losing his shit in front of a teenager at a high school soccer game he has no reason to be at, "My daughter wasn't good enough for you? Did you decide it wasn't girls you liked after all like the little—"

Clarke takes a step towards him, already raising her fist in the air, but Bellamy pulls her back. He doesn't want her to get suspended because his sperm-donor is trying to get under  _his_ skin.

"Kane—" Bellamy starts, ready to at least verbally smack him down, but is cut off by his half-sister before he can finish his very offensive line of thoughts.

"Dad, please just, for once in your life, shut the hell up," Lexa grumbles, hands pressed together in front of her mouth, resting against her lips as she tries to keep a steady composure. She rises to her feet, slowly, deliberate, "What are you even doing here? This is a high school soccer game. I'm not even playing." Her teeth clench, as she grits, "What reason do you have to be here beside chasing some small town glory from a lifetime ago? You're  _pathetic_."

"Alexandra," Marcus says, jaw flexing visibly, but she shakes her head, pushing him aside as she starts to make her way down the steps, but not before she vindictively calls over her shoulder, "No wonder mom wants to divorce you."

Maybe she's going to prove him wrong after all. (Then again… It's the same night he finds out from Octavia Lexa is moving back in with her dad instead of living with her mom like she previously said she would, which—he can never figure this girl out, can he?)

Clarke just widens her eyes at Bellamy, who squeezes her hand, tells her to get to Ontari before murder becomes first on her to kill list. When he turns back to Marcus, he's still staring into his direction. Why is he still here? Hasn't he been humiliated enough?

"What?" The younger of the two snaps, aggravated.

Kane scoffs, his nose crinkling in disdain. "No 'thank you'? For saving your life?" Right. Bellamy figured he was going to ask for something in return sooner or later. He wouldn't know what a selfless act is even if it hit him in the face.

He wants to be the hero now? He did one thing right in his life, one thing, after a series, a very long series, of horrible shit. Marcus is still a fucking villain in his book.

Bellamy squares his jaw, staring at him as his nostrils flare in anger. He won't give him the satisfaction of a well-thought out rebuttal. He doesn't even deserve a rejection at this point. He's just tired of it.

"No? Figures." Kane clucks his tongue. something much darker washing over his face at the silence he's met with. "Luckily I only pulled you out of that wreck to see you suffer. Because you will. You were made to fail."

It shouldn't hurt, but it still does. And for that, he blames himself. He's so disgusted with himself for even still caring. Bellamy blinks at him for a beat, then shakes his head, disbelief coating his voice, "Nice."

When he brushes past him, he knocks his shoulder into his purposely. When he feels tears brimming in his eyes, he blinks them away. And when he sits down next to Coach Miller in the technical area beside some substitutes, all he feels is gratitude as the older man offers him a small pat on the back of his shoulder and doesn't tell him to go back to the bleachers.

* * *

"Are you sure this is okay?" Clarke asks nervously, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear before she tugs on the bottom of her dress self consciously. It's a pretty dress with a modest neckline that ends just above her knee, a navy blue color that makes her eyes stand out. Her hair is pulled back, still slightly damp from her post-game shower.

He finally manages to stick his key into the door, twisting the handle to open it. He lingers outside, the door just slightly ajar, as he pivots towards her. He swats at her hands, instead holding them with both of his. "Babe, stop—please. You look beautiful. My mom's going to love you."

At the still panicked look in her eyes, he drops one of her hands, instead cupping her cheek, gingerly running his thumb over her flushed cheekbone as he presses a supporting kiss to her forehead. She always overthinks and overthinks and ends up psyching herself out. "You're great. You're smart, and funny, ambitious, not horrible to look at, and not a drug dealer. What more could a mom want?"

"There's so much to unpack there," Clarke answers, dryly, trying to keep a smile off her face. Then she shakes her head, leaning her forehead against his collarbone briefly and allowing him to band his arm around her waist before she takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'm good."

They go in together. Despite her reservations, dinner goes well. Clarke compliments his mom's cooking who made a separate less spicy dish especially for her; Octavia fills half of the time with stories about the most important person in her life which is herself and her accomplishments; and the other half is filled with his mom asking them about school and Clarke's life, parents, hobbies, interests, future plans. She's smiling the entire night, but her eyes look a little vacant, less sparkly than usual. He brushes it off as nerves, puts his hand on her thigh whenever he sees her shoulders tense at a particularly invasive question until at one point she just keeps it there by folding hers on top of his.

It's Octavia's turn to do the dishes and mid-convo about Mr. Pike's petty mission to break Bellamy's A+ streak, his mom stretches her arms above her head as she looks at the clock hanging above the dining table, smiling apologetically. "I have to leave for my shift if I wanna make it in time."

"It was really nice to meet you, sweetheart," his mom says, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she leans in to hug Clarke, squeezing her hands as she pulls away. The blonde looks a little stunned, a dazed look covering her features. "I can see why Bellamy never shuts up about you."

"Mom," he warns, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. She just smiles wistfully, leaning up to kiss his cheek, one hand on his shoulder. "Clarke can stay until ten, but keep your door open, okay?"

"Yeah." He rolls his eyes, but only  _after_ she turns to walk over to Octavia, rubbing her arms from behind and checking her preferences for tomorrow's lunch one more time. He doesn't have an  _active_ deathwish at the moment.

"You too, Miss Blake," Clarke replies, quickly, before Bellamy intertwines their fingers and pulls her into the direction of the stairs.

She laughs into his mouth as he pushes her against the door as soon as it closes behind them, fingers digging into his shoulders. He pulls back, eyebrows raised slightly as his thumbs move over the soft curve of her stomach, hands positioned on her sides. "You mentioned wanting to try something?"

"Mhmm," she pretends to think, biting down on her lip to hide a gasp as he starts kissing down her neck, sucks on her pulsepoint, "I don't recall."

His head snaps up to send her a dark look, and instead of teasing him any further, her tongue darts out to wet her lips and it's quiet for a moment. The tension builds, and builds, and then her fingers knot into his hair at the back of his neck, pulling him towards her face as she crashes her lips against his, hard.

Clarke starts walking him backwards, other hand fumbling with the buttons on his button down as his hand slide up her creamy thighs under her skirt to the curve of her ass. Her mouth is warm, wet, perfect as she kisses him, rough, desperate, almost invasive. The back of his knees hit his bed and they fall down together, her on top as she helps him shrug off his shirt as soon as she unpops the last button.

"Wait," she breathes, pulling back a little, eyes still closed. "What about your sister?"

"It's game day." He can't help but peck the centre swell of her mouth, run a finger over the beauty mark right above her lips delicately. She's so beautiful, it aches a little. "She'll be knocked out on the couch after finishing the dishes until I eventually carry her upstairs."

Clarke sits up, holding him off as he tries to lean back into her space to kiss her again. She smiles, distractedly, folding her legs beneath her. "Your mom she was so nice," she says, softly, and later, when he plays it back over and over, he won't mistake the tears in her eyes for the moonlight streaming inside from his window.

"Are you going to mention Kane next?" He teases, hands sliding up her thighs as he moves closer. This time she doesn't push him away, allows him to swallow her soft chuckles with a sloppy kiss.

Clarke lays back down on her back, taking him with her as her hands explore his chest, fingers trailing over the dark patch of hair just above his jeans teasingly. He licks into her mouth, cups her firm breast, squeezing in retaliation until she arches into his touch, whimpering slightly.

His knee moves up to press against her heated centre and Clarke pulls him closer, fingers knotting into his hair as their kisses get faster, wetter, even rougher as she writhes against him. He slows them down just a little, hand moving away from her breast and up to cup her jaw, brushing gingerly over the soft skin of her cheek with his thumb as he peppers kisses all over her face; the corner of her mouth, her rosy cheek, the small slope of her nose.

Bellamy pulls back a little, meeting her gaze. She bites down into her bottom lip, one hand moving from the back of his skull to the front of his face, running her finger over his full lips. The look in her eyes is gentle, soft, pupils blown and she's so beautiful, so fucking beautiful, and it hits him all at once, this overwhelming warmth spreading from his constricted chest to the tips of his fingers and the top of his head. He wants to be good to her, make her feel good, make her feel loved, hold her hand and tell her how amazing she is, stand by her side while she accomplishes all sorts of amazing things, while she changes the world with her brilliant mind or her amazing art, make her laugh, wipe away her tears, all of it. "I love you," he breathes, still slightly panting from their kisses.

He can tell it takes her a second to register it, for the panic to rise to her eyes, for the panic to claw it's way up his own chest. Fuck. Why did he say that? His heart stutters in his chest. She pushes him off, runs a hand through her hair roughly even though it gets stuck where her hair elastic is holding it up. "I can't do this, okay?"

"It's okay," he says, calmly, knowing they've been here before. He mentally curses himself for making the same mistake twice, for not easing her into it. Tries to soothe her by rubbing his hand up her arm slowly. Almost frantic, he urges, "It was a mistake. You don't have to say it back, okay? It's alright."

"No," she snaps, jerking away from him, motioning between the two of them as her eyes glaze over, "I can't do  _this._  I can't be with you."

Clarke scrambles off the bed before he can register it, still taken back by the sudden blow and the painful ache in his chest, so it takes him a few seconds to catch up, grabbing her by the elbow in the hallway. "Clarke, please. You can't be serious."

If she would just listen for a second, if she would just sit down and listen and not run away for once, just once—

"It's too much," she breathes, holding up a hand to keep him at bay, chest heaving heavily, her eyes darting everywhere but on him, a hollow look in them. Her mouth opens and snaps shut in rapid succession, before she finally stares up at him and offers, simply, resigned, final, "It's too much."

She rushes down the stairs and a few seconds later he hears the front door slam shut loudly. He doesn't bother chasing her, knows it won't help. Once she makes up her mind—it's no use. Finding himself angry at her, at himself, he punches the wall right beside his door, the wall splitting open in a much likewise manner as his knuckles.

"Fuck," he curses, waving the sensitive skin in the air like it'll help, knowing the last thing he needs is another injury or another reason for Coach Miller to keep him benched.

Octavia finds him not much later on the roof right outside his bedroom window, having put on an old threadbare t-shirt and ran his hand under a cold stream of water for a good five minutes.

To his surprise, she manages to stay silent for a full two minutes before she begins her tirade. "Why did I just see Clarke run out on her bare feet, shoes still in her hand?"

"Who knows," he mumbles, keeping his gaze fixated on the dark sky, even though everything is blurring together into indecipherable constellations. He keeps playing it over and over again, but in the end he just comes to the same conclusion. He shouldn't be villainized for caring about her.

"What did you do?" His sister accuses him, always accuses him, nothing new. And he would be able to take it, like always, he would, if only his heart didn't feel like a raw, exposed nerve, like the only good thing he ever had going for him just walked out on him, again. He's not good enough, he'll never be good enough, he'll never do right by her, and it fucking stings.

"I said I loved her and she ran," he admits, bitterly, balling his fist until the pain from straining his bruised knuckles spreads up his arm to the back of his skull. He enjoys the sting. "Isn't that the shit girls like to hear?"

Octavia stiffens beside him. "Maybe Clarke isn't like the other girls."

He scoffs at her, finally meeting her eyes as he looks at her over his shoulder. Venomously, he grits, "Lexa really is turning you into grade-A fuckboy."

"Shut up," she snaps, fingers digging into her calves so hard he's afraid she might draw blood. Good, he thinks, he hit her somewhere where it hurts for once. "Do I have to remind you that I only got with her to save your ass?"

Save his ass? Sure. He could've handled himself just fine. Isn't that what she's always telling him? He huffs, mirthless, his eyes darkening on hers. "Is that what you tell yourself when you kiss her?"

She only looks surprised for a second, hurt flashing across her eyes briefly before it's gone. Something meaner washes over her face instead. "You don't get to lash out at me because you just got dumped."

"I'm not wrong about her," he spits, tired of always being the bad guy in her eyes. "Didn't you say at dinner that she's moving in with her dad? After all he's done?"

There's a tick in her jaw. "For your information, he is blackmailing her. He said if she doesn't come home with him, he'll reveal nasty private shit about her mom in court. Shit that could ruin her career."

Oh. "I didn't know," he says after a beat, lamely.

"Of course you didn't," she bites back just as heated as before as she rises to her feet. "You never try and see things from her side. She didn't exactly win the dad of the year lottery either, you know. Ever considered maybe in the end you were better off?"

With that she manoeuvres herself back into the house through his window, slamming the door of his room shut loudly.

* * *

"Bellamy, what the hell?" Miller exclaims, erratic, taking off his headphones and chucking them somewhere in the general direction of a nearby bench as he rushes over to his side to help him down the bicycle trainer.

Bellamy tries to swat him away, shrugs him off and presses, "I'm fine," before struggling to sit down on one of the nearby work-out benches.

"You're fine?" Miller echoes, exasperated, as he motions at his injured leg while Bellamy pretends to be busy wiping the sweat of his face with a towel. "You're  _bleeding,_ man."

"It's just a few drops," Bellamy grits, folding up the towel and pressing it against the side of his leg. It's really not that bad. "I'm fine. I need to get back on the team."

"And you will," Miller assures him, placing his hand on the junction of his neck and shoulder as he squeezes is supportively. "Once your leg heals. You have to give it time. Nobody is going to take your spot."

He can hear the words, and they make sense but they don't resonate with the responsibility he feels inside for the team, to help them, to make them succeed. Especially since he can't seem to do anything else right. He's a shitty brother, a shitty boyfriend, a shitty person. Soccer is what he's good at, what he can do. What he has to do.

"It'll be too late by then," he argues, heated. "We'll have lost the championships."

"Whatever," his friend returns, equally as aggravated as a bead of sweat glides down his temple, a familiar crease between his brows. "So we lose. Big deal. It's not worth using your ability to walk over." He grinds his teeth, what he says next making Bellamy's eyes snap up to his. "Ask Raven."

It's a low blow, but it hits him right where it needs to, makes him screw his eyes shut.

"You want me to tell you I feel sorry for you? That we need you, that we can't do it without you?" Miller pushes, and pushes. "I'm not going to. We'd be better with you, but we won our last game and we'll win our next. Maybe we'll have to push ourselves harder, but none of that matters, okay?" Miller urges, yet again squeezing his shoulder, trying to ground him to reality. "None of that matters as long as you're okay."

"I'm a loser," Bellamy finally relents, slouching over as he stretches out his leg, wincing in the process. He's so fucking dumb.

"That you are," Miller counters, much lighter, mouth curving up into a smile as he plops down beside him. "But I know you. This isn't just about your leg."

"It is. I feel like it only gets worse," Bellamy mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. The silence drags on, and he can feel Nate's judgemental cold stare on the side of his profile. With a small, protesting groan, hating the fact his best friend knows him so well, he admits, "But Clarke dumped me, too. So I guess that's  _also_ bothering me."

"Of course it is."

Bellamy slumps a little, sighs. "I've downloaded Tinder."

"Nice." Miller scoffs, humoured, crosses his arms over his chest as he plays long. "What's the score so far?"

He fishes his phone from his shorts, unlocking it to pull up the app and show his friend some pictures. "There's this one girl who's pretty cute and wants to meet up."

Miller high fives him appreciatively, flipping through his other matches for a while, appraising them. Handing his phone back with a pointed look, he presses, "So you're not actually planning on meeting up with any of them, are you?"

It's Miller's way of policing him. They both know he shouldn't do it, but sometimes Bellamy can be a little impulsive so his best friend reminds him of what's best. He rubs small circles above his wound, grimacing a little. "No, I guess not."

He really was just pretending to move on, pretending like he was fine, like maybe he could find a nice blonde girl with blue eyes and pretend some more. It's no use.

The smaller of the two sits up a little, hands gripping the edges of the bench as he looks at his emotionally tortured friend, "I know they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, but—" He trails off, scrunching up his face as he pretends to think, "You've been stuck on this girl since what,  _third_ grade?"

Bellamy sends him a glare in response, then nods his head towards the weights behind them, slapping his friend with his towel. "Want me to spot you?"

Miller presses a hand to his heart mockingly. "Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

He hasn't been able to work for weeks, but his leg is finally alright enough to tackle a few hours a week. Just his luck that on his second day back, Sinclair informs all of them Marcus Kane out of all people will be taking over the garage. He's going to renovate it and rename it. When Bellamy tries to protest, it's with a grimace, his boss tells them, "It was a faulty deal but I was behind on rent, for months now. I accepted it."

There's nothing Kane won't try to take from him.

After multiple extensive conversations and medical consults, Coach Miller allows him back at practice, as a trial, and slowly, day by day, he's getting back to his old self. He feels more like who he used to be, losing himself in the game—in the smell of grass, and sweat, and dirt, of sore muscles and a deserved aching tiredness settling over his bones at the end of each training.

He's not proud to say he's been avoiding Clarke, can barely look over at the cheerleaders where they're stretching every practice. When he does finally build up the courage, he sees her leaving practice early, bag slung over her hunched shoulder. His toes curl, trying to keep from chasing her. It's not a good idea. It's not his job. Not anymore. She doesn't want him.

"Can I play on Friday?" He asks Coach Miller, frantic, mostly to distract himself, keep himself busy.

"You can't," he mentions, final, clapping his hands at a few of his teammates and yelling at them to speed up their high-knees. David glances over at him brief, neutral expression on his face. "But if you wanna help, you can."

"How?" Bellamy presses, forehead creasing.

"By training someone else," Coach says, raising his eyebrows as he finally turns to face Bellamy completely, clipboard lodged under his armpit. He nods over to the bench next to the water cooler where Lexa is sitting, chest heaving from running in late as she ties her shoe. She never officially quit, has just been missing practice left and right.

Bellamy doesn't say anything, even if his fingers unconsciously curl into fists. His coach takes this as an opportunity to continue, whistling at Lexa and motioning for her to come over. She jogs over, glancing over at him briefly before turning to the older man in their midst. "I want you two to work together. To try and improve Lexa's game."

Lexa actually moves her head back a few inches, gritting, "My game doesn't need improving."

"Frankly, it does," Coach Miller urges, "You haven't been showing up to practice, and if it wasn't for me being short on more players than I can afford, I would've suspended you weeks ago."

Bellamy flashes back to their conversation. About her not wanting to play anymore. "I don't mind," he says, easy, trying to go in lightly, try to make it seem like it's something he needs as well, to make it less difficult for her. "I would actually really like being out on the field more again."

It's a half-assed attempt at meeting her halfway, taking away the pressure of having to do something for herself and being able to twist it into doing something for him instead. But she just shakes her head. "I can't help you with that. I'm sorry."

Without another glance, she disappears back towards the locker rooms. Bellamy shares a look with Coach Miller, who sighs deeply, rubbing his temples with his pointer finger and thumb. "Something is wrong with that girl. Half a year ago she would've threatened to have me fired for even suggesting she would need help with anything." He searches Bellamy's eyes, like he has the answers. "She's just—"

"Apathetic?" Bellamy offers, looking back out at the entrance of the school like she might still be lingering there.

Coach purses his lips, doesn't say anything. The younger of the two licks his lips, looks back up at him. "I'll do my best."

Resigned, with a small clap on the back of his shoulder, he admits, "I hope it's enough."

Bellamy waits out on the field after practice, cornering her when she comes outside as one of the last girls, wearing her Grounders tracksuit.

"We could work on your pull back v?" He offers with half a shrug, t-shirt sticking to his back. He's already too tired, his stamina down after weeks of minimum practice, but he has to try.

Lexa raises her eyebrows, then to his surprise, drops her bag at her feet, shrugging off her hoodie before passing him by easily and shooting the ball at his feet directing at the goal even though they're near the midline. She scores, no problem. With a vindictive snarl, she tells him, "I don't need your help, Blake."

She jogs back to her bag to yank it off the ground roughly, knocking her shoulder into his on the way. The impact makes him step back on his bad leg with too much unexpected weight, making him wince. Fuck this.

Even though he's not allowed to play, he comes along on the team's weekend trip to an out of state small scale yearly soccer and cheerleader tournament. He wants to support the team, let them know he's still here. Lexa comes too, still in limbo between quitting and joining, recently emancipated from both her parents and living on her own. It's not ideal, he not only feels like he's always fighting with Octavia, now she's never home either.

While they wait for their bags to be loaded into the bus, he realizes he queued up behind Clarke. Before he can move further to the back and pretend like he didn't see her, she turns around, catching his gaze.

"Hey," he says, after catching his breath. His own voice sounds like that of a stranger. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Clarke answers, tentatively, rolling her lips together, arms crossed over her chest for warmth, mostly, he assumes. "Ontari's been killing us for the past few weeks. She really wants to win the cheer competition."

"Right," he says, too teasing, too simple, too fucking painful, forcing a grin on his face as he tries not to notice how much his chest hurts with longing. He misses her. A strand of hair blows into her face from the wind, and she brushes it away, while he swallows hard. "Still doing your part trying to better the world."

They share a nervous laugh between the two of them as the line moves up, and he almost feels some of the tension disappear before he notices the tears in her eyes.

"Clarke," he breathes, soft, feeling like dying, fingers wrapping around her wrist to keep her from turning away.

"No," she urges, pulling her arm away from his grip, crossing them back over her chest instead. Her voice wavers just slightly. "Please—just don't."

She pushes past a few other people, ducking inside the bus while ignoring the few protests she earns along the way.

He feels Octavia's presence beside him before she speaks. "What's her deal?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he shakes his head at the spot she was in mere moments ago. Why—why would she be this hurt if she is the one that walked out on him? "I don't know." Because talking about Clarke always ends up in an argument, he changes the subject quickly, mustering together a smile for her as he knocks his arm into hers. "Wanna sit together?"

She opens her mouth, brows creasing together apologetically, and Bellamy rolls his eyes. Of course. As if on cue, Lexa honks the horn of her expensive car, waving her over. "I already promised, big brother."

"So much for team spirit," he mutters, and Octavia pinches his side meanly. "The pompoms didn't fit on the bus and she offered to take them."

"Sure it has zero to do with her superiority complex."

"Sorry," she says, not sounding all that sincere, then disappears towards the car.

It's a six hour drive to Shadow Valley, home base of Eligius High, practically their worst enemy. He would've loved to be a part of kicking their ass. A  _long_  six hours. Considering Harper is asleep for the whole ride and practically on top of him. She's heavy for a girl who's all muscle and weighs next to nothing.

Harper is still leaning against him sluggishly as they wait in the hotel's reception for further instructions. They're playing a lazy game of I spy with Monroe and Miller when Lexa storms up towards their coach, shoving a form into his face. "What the hell is this?"

Bellamy is already moving over there, grabbing the form from her hands. It's their room assignments. He almost groans out loud when he sees the reason Lexa is so upset. Bellamy argues, "This isn't alphabetical."

Coach Miller smirks, unmoved. "The boy-girl ratio is askew so siblings have to share," he says simply, like he hadn't planned this all along.

"Why can't I share with Octavia?" Bellamy opposes, eyes flicking from the paper back to the older man. "We have the same last name."

Something harder washes over his face, something final. "Because I said so, son."

"Fantastic," Lexa comments loudly, throwing her hands up before stalking back to the check-in counter to snatch her keys off the counter.

When he returns to his friends, Monroe and Miller are still arguing about the color of the painting on the wall, a lame and futile attempt at trying to distract Bellamy from what just happened, while Harper gives him a sympathetic smile, squeezing his bicep. "Sorry, Bell."

"Yeah, me too."

He waits for his bag, then follows his half-sister up to their room for the weekend. She's doing situps on the floor, he notices, once he manavoerus open the door. He rolls his eyes, throwing his bag onto one of the beds. He lays down on top of it, propping the pillow up against the headboard, turning on the tv with the remote he finds on the nightstand.

Lexa rises to a seated position slowly. He refuses to look at her. Her glare intensifies, he can feel it, and then she reaches out, manually turning off the tv.

"I was watching that."

"I don't want any distractions right now."

"And I don't want to watch you work out, but we can't all have what we want," he snaps loudly, fishing out his phone to start up candy crush instead, leaving the sound on it's loudest setting on purpose.

"You know who else are sharing a room?" Lexa buts in, wiping some sweat from her brow with her forearm before resting it back on top of her knees. "Raven and Clarke."

"Great," he bites back, keeping his gaze fixated on his phone. He knew Raven came as their unofficial mascot, he doesn't see her point.

"Isn't that your worst nightmare?" She urges, ugly, and it's now he realizes she's trying to get under his skin, because he got under hers.

"Not really. Me and Raven never were something," he tells her like he's reading out loud from the newspaper. He only has to grind his teeth slightly to get the next sentence out just as even. "Me and Clarke are over."

Lexa scoffs, indignant, laying back down. "Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He prods, finally looking up at her. She doesn't respond, starts doing crunches instead.

He thinks  _fuck it_ , and after 45 levels of candy crush figures it's better to leave while she showers than to risk seeing things he doesn't want to. He goes downstairs to the lobby, finds Raven in the midst of a heated argument with a guy, sitting at the bar and sipping on a shirley temple as she waves around her hands angrily. Once he comes closer, he realizes it's Shaw. One of the Eligius squad members—their mortal enemy.

Closer, he also realizes it's not as much anger, as it is sexual tension radiating off them in waves. Bellamy clears his throat, stopping in front of them. "Am I interrupting something?"

Raven looks flushed, a new look for her. Bellamy bites back a grin. The guy doesn't even look over at him, his eyes just flicking down to her lips briefly as she announces, loudly, "Absolutely  _not._  Shaw here was just leaving."

The guy raises his eyebrows, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing. "Was I?"

She kicks him in the shin, not so subtly, grip around her glass tightening dangerously as that famous dimple above her brow appears. "You were."

He holds up his hands in defense, shifting off the bar stool. Shaw offers, "Bye?"

She says nothing, just blinks at him blankly. He chuckles, amused, then turns to walk away.

"You know he's like Eligius' best attacking midfield," Bellamy just comments, sliding in the warm stool Shaw just vacated.

"Not as good as I was," Raven just comments simply, taking a sip of her drink.

"No one is," Bellamy agrees with a grin, flagging over the bartender to order a coke. Then he sighs heavily, leaning forward on his forearms.

"Trouble in paradise?" Raven muses, dragging the cherry of it's stem with her teeth.

He glares at her. "Funny."

Clarke passes the other side of the round bar, talking to someone. Her laughs catches their attention. The one who's making her laugh makes his blood boil.

"Is that  _Collins?_ " He hisses, eyes raking over the familiar form of the team captain of Eligius, former part of the Grounders, total grade A asshole with ridiculous boy band hair.

"Oh. It definitely is," she snorts, humourless, edge to her voice. "You know I used to date him before he moved. He's not half bad," she takes another noisy sip, pursing her lips as she swooshes her straw around roughly. "If only he hadn't ghosted me after taking my v-card." She sighs dramatically, putting up a front, but he can see her hand on top of the bar curl into a fist so hard, her knuckles turn white. "He would've been the perfect caucasian to take home to my mother."

Bellamy frowns, covering her knee with his hand. "Do you want me to go over there and punch him?"

"That'd be great but I'm not sure you'd be doing it for me," Raven relents, small smile playing on her lips. She follows his gaze back over to Collins and Clarke, her hand resting on his arm as her mouth moves, telling him an animated story. "You're jealous."

"I just hate the sleazebag." He clenches his jaw, then forces himself to relax, looking back at Raven. "She deserves better."

"Like who? You?"

A flash, tears brimming in her blue eyes, then it's gone. Luckily, it comes out less pathetic than he imagined it would. "She doesn't want me."

She raises her eyebrows briefly to herself, shaking her head lightly. "I'm sure  _that's_  the reason."

To make matters worse, when he goes back to his room, Octavia and Lexa are there, making out on top of her bed. He makes it all but two feet inside, before he's back in the hallway, kicking the door closed quickly.

He's furiously pressing the button of the elevator, when Octavia comes rushing after him, straightening her shirt. He can't look at her when her mouth red, fixes his gaze at the moving numbers on top of the elevator instead.

She touches his arm. "Sorry you had to see that."

His nostrils flare. "Are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he insists, exhaling loudly as his shoulders deflate. He's not in the mood for an argument, his head is already pounding, his fingers already itching to punch a wall. He's just so on edge. "Just.. go back inside and be with your girlfriend." He can't help but sound a little petty on the last word. He's such a fucking dick, and he doesn't know how to stop.

Her eyes burn into the side of his face a moment longer, before she finally gives in, coldly. "Whatever."

When he tries again after a few careful knocks, way past eleven, Lexa isn't here. Neither is Octavia. Just when he plops down on top of is bed with a heavy sigh, his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a selfie of Monroe and Harper in matching bikini tops, peace signs and ironic duck faces.

**monroe**

> _pool party ?_

**harper**

> _chaperones are asleep it's time to come out and play, assholes_

**miller**

> _i'm omw_

He rolls his eyes. Then pulls his swim shorts from his suitcase since he might as well.

Most of the team and the cheerleaders are already crashing the pool by the time he discretely makes his way down to the basement. He's immediately pushed in by Miller once his friends notice him, and he and the girls end up playing a game of shoulderwars. He and Harper beat Monroe and Miller easily every time, considering their height advantage and the fact Miller and Monroe are both bad at communication. His leg starts to feel sore after twenty minutes, so he taps out.

Harper pouts as she searches for purchase on the edge of the pool as he helps her down. "Ahhh, dream team breaking up already?"

He laughs, already tapping ilian on the shoulder from where he's standing talking to a bored looking cheerleader. It's a save on both ends, he figures. "Hey. Can you?" He motions his head over towards Harper, Monroe still lodged on Miller's shoulders behind her.

"Sure," Illian shrugs with a grin and Bellamy presents him to Harper with a smirk. A flush covering her chest, the guy helps her up on his shoulders, and once she's up there, she sends Bellamy a thumbs up, mouthing a ' _thank you_ ' before biting her lip to keep from smiling herself.

He chuckles as he hoists himself into the edge of the pool, watching them battle it out for a while before he spots Octavia walking away from Lexa in the hottub, jumping into the pool instead. Something tugs at his insides, something a lot like guilt. He decides to go over there against his better judgement, sliding into the much warmer water with a hiss.

Lexa talks first, "You don't like me and Octavia together, do you?"

"I don't like seeing her together with anyone," he admits, genuine, and then just because he can, adds, "and I know who you are."

She huffs, "Funny," then takes a sip of the champagne glass she's holding.

"You shouldn't drink," he cuts in, neutral, even though his brow is furrowed together. "We have a game tomorrow."

"Whatever," she mutters, wading her hand through the water distractedly to create a ripple effect.

"It's not whatever," he presses, meaner, sitting up to keep from slapping her hand back down into the water, or the glass out of her hand. "I'd  _kill_  to be out there."

A smile plays on her lips. "Why aren't you?"

"Because of my leg," he bites, "It still hurts to much."

"I hurt my knee a couple summers ago," she replies, immediate, her voice upbeat, hollow. "I was back on the field in like six weeks."

Humouring her, he questions, "What was your secret?"

She tips back the rest of the glass, finally meeting his eye. "There is no secret. You just kick the ball and deal with the pain. Somewhere along the line it'll get easier." If only it was that easy. Once again, it explains so much about her. How she pushes things away, no matter how much it hurts. She puts the flute down on the edge of the hot tub, as if to make a point. "I'll tear up the field tomorrow. I always do. I figured I'll go for a season record, just to piss of my father."

He scoffs, happy to change the subject. "Where's he this weekend anyway?"

"The lawyers told him to skip a game to show he's not controlled by soccer." She lets out a short, dark laugh, pressing her fingers into her bare eyes. "So he bought a satellite dish to bring in the live feed."

He just hums in response, a short sound in the back of his throat. Lexa looks back at him, genuine smile playing on her lips this time. "You know, there's always other sports. You don't need your legs to suck at golf." For a second he thinks she's teasing, but then her expression turns more sour, and he's reminded it's always one step forward, two steps back with her. He narrows his eyes, but she's not done yet. "But knowing you, you'd probably just hurt yourself again."

This back-and-forth game is actually getting pretty tiring. Just seeing who can hurt the other more.

"You know, when I was little I always wanted more little siblings," he tells her, spreading his arms over the edge of the tub leisurely. "Especially another Octavia. Another little sister." He huffs, a small humoured sound at the memory before meeting her eyes, darkly. "Then I found out about you and I got over that quickly."

She doesn't visibly react, just squints her eyes at him in thought after a moment, searching his face for a few long, awkward seconds. Solemnly, she analyzes, "You say you know me, which I think is funny when I don't even know myself." Her most honest confession yet. But he guesses she was never a liar. "Yet Octavia seems to see something in me." She wets her lips, wet baby hairs plastered to her neck. "Do you not trust her at least?"

Instead of replying, he wonders, shaking his head, "What the hell was Miller thinking asking me to train you, putting us in the same room?"

"He's just bored," she answers, even if it wasn't directed at her. Her eyes are a little glazed over. "And evil."

Her eyes focus on something behind him. "Speak of the devil," Lexa mutters, just as a shadow looms over the hot tub and Bellamy's flinching before he talks. "I want everyone back in their rooms in two minutes or heads will be rolling."

* * *

 

The cheerleader competition starts early on Saturday morning. He spots Clarke being lectured by Ontari, sunglasses perched on top of her nose and arms crossed over her chest before their routine. Which is flawless, of course, but they don't win.

The entire squad gets down from the venues to congratulate them on a great routine and he's on his way to his sister, but Octavia runs straight past him and throws her arms around Lexa instead.

"Ouch," Monroe mutters from beside him and he sends her a glare. She holds up her hands in defense, trying to hold back a grin, and he just rolls his eyes, walking over to the two of them.

Flicking his eyes between the two of them, wrapped up in each others arms, he eventually focuses his gaze on his real sister. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Fine," she snaps, heated, pressing a kiss to Lexa's lips, mostly to make a point he thinks, before following Bellamy to a quieter place, off to the side.

"Congrats," he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. A grin forms on his face despite his uneasiness, swelling with pride. "You were amazing."

"I know," Octavia counters, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans back at a nearby wall, looking back at the crowd. "What did you want to talk about?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. Lets out a frustrated noise. "I'm sorry. Things have been different since you started dating Lexa and—" he gulps, shaking his head a little. "I miss you."

Finally, she seems to soften just a little, shoulders slouching. Still, she can't help but retaliate, "I don't spend any more time with her than you."

"I know," he says quickly, before she can add more, then takes a moment to form the words for what he really wants to say. "I know. And she's your girlfriend. Of course you'll want to be with her. It's just that—I miss my sister."

"I miss you too, Bell." Her eyes soften, dropping her hands to her sides, as her forehead crinkles. Her fingers flex, and then like she might change her mind if she doesn't, she reaches out to grasp his in hers. "But have you thought about how hard this is on me, juggling your two egos? I love you, big brother." She smiles weak, letting go of his hands to punch him in the chest. "You're important to me, but so is Lexa. And if you want to be a part of my life, eventually, sooner or later, you're gonna have to be a part of hers too."

"You're right," he agrees, after watching her sweat for just a second. He holds out his hands, palms down and she slaps them, something they used to do when they were little and one hurt the other accidentally.

She smiles, bright and real. All or nothing. "Of course I am."

He knocks his shoulder into hers as they walk back towards the rest of her squad. "Wanna sit together at the game?'

"You know Ontari will have my head on a platter right?" Octavia raises her eyebrows, even though he can tell she's trying to keep from smiling.

"You can take her."

"Hell yeah," she exclaims enthusiastically, kicking him in the shin. His knee buckles under the sudden impact and he winces as he reaches down to hold his leg. "Oh  _fuck._  Sorry," she grimaces, patting his back as he glares her way. He almost regrets apologizing.

He sits squeezed in between Raven and Octavia at the game, and soon before he knows it there's only two minutes left on the clock and there's a 1-1 on the scoreboard. They  _have_  to win to have any semblance of a shot at being state champs. His heart beats loudly in his chest as Lexa intercepts the ball from Collins, making her way over to the goal being double teamed. His heart might actually break through his ribcage, he thinks, but then she does a pull back v, and without thinking, he stands up, clapping his hands, "Come on!" She turns, lifts her foot and kicks. His pulse is a straight line of nothing.  _Score._

They erupt into loud cheers, both women throwing their arms around him and they jump up and down excitedly. They can still win the championship.

Octavia squeezes his forearm, gives him a knowing look. "Hey, were you just rooting for Lexa?"

He rolls his eyes, keeping his eyes on his teammates on the field, on top of each other in a celebratory human pile. "I was rooting for the team."

"Whatever you say," she smirks, sharing a look with Raven, who looks about just as smug.

He waits outside the girls locker room for Harper and Monroe, Miller joining him after a few minutes, smelling freshly showered. They talk about the game, poke fun at the Eligius team, until a loud, muffled, " _Well fuck you, Ontari_ " tears through the air and breaks up their conversation, a door slamming loudly. Clarke storms out of the locker room, her hair wet from the shower and hanging down her shoulder, clad in a w tracksuit.

Miller shoots him a look but Bellamy's already pushing himself off the wall, rushing after her. He has to be sure she is okay. He catches up with her just as she leaves the building, door falling shut behind them.

He actively has to remind himself not to touch her. Instead, he presses, "Clarke. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she breathes, heavily, pivoting to face him, scrubbing a hand over her face. A small smile forms on her lips, polite almost. "Just Ontari being a bitch as always."

He just wants to see her real smile, something genuine. Not the wall she puts up for others. "Don't tell me she's pissed she didn't win Miss Congeniality today."

To his surprise, she laughs, bright, her posture relaxing and her eyes softening as he joins in. It fades slowly, their eyes locking. His heart squeezes uncomfortably.

Bellamy licks his lips, can't help but reach up to tuck a wet strand of hair behind her ear. Gently, he wonders, "I don't get why we can't just be together."

She catches his hand before it drops completely, swallowing tightly. "Because I was right. I was scared of losing you and that's exactly what happened."

Exasperated, he exclaims, squeezing for emphasis, "You didn't lose me."

Clarke drops his fingers from hers, taking in a shaky breath as her eyes darken. "You avoid me. You barely speak to me. We used to talk all the time and now you don't even reply to my messages."

He clenches his jaw, digging deep for the painful truth. She did try and reach out a few times, ask him how he was. He couldn't reply, because he couldn't lie. And he didn't want to tell her he felt like dying every time he saw her in the hallways. "Because I was hurt. If we'd just stayed together none of this would've even happened."

She shakes her head, brow furrowing together. "That's not something you can promise."

"We won't break up," he insists, stubborn, but sounding resigned. He knows this is an argument he can't win. He won't ever break-up with her, but he can't say the same for her. He's not perfect.

Clarke's eyes burn into his, slightly glazed over, wrapping her arms around herself. "We will. Everyone does eventually. Nothing lasts. Once you get bored of me, or realize who I really am—"

He cuts her off, voice rough as his heart breaks in his chest, anger bubbling up inside him despite knowing better. "That's bullshit and you know it. Not everything you love gets destroyed, Clarke." He wishes she could see herself the way he does.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. He gives her another minute. Not that he expects a different answer than she gives him, croaking. "I can't, okay?"

Clarke sniffs, taking a step closer. She wraps her cold fingers around his wrist, carefully, licks her dry lips as she looks up at him, almost helpless. "Can we try— at least try and be friends again at least?"

Even if it kills him, he's going to try. He runs his thumb over her fingers, covering her hand with his own. "Yeah, yeah. We can."

* * *

For the school's annual charity week, the team holds a boy/girltoy auction as always. Girls and boys can bid on the members of the squad, and all the money goes to charity, supposedly. The rules are they have to spend the evening together until midnight, and there has to be a midnight kiss to end the evening.

Bellamy never went any previous years, mostly because he thought it was less about charity, and more about the Grounders showing how big of a jackasses they were. But he goes, because Octavia said she'd bid on him so they could spend an evening together, just the two of them, because they haven't in a while.

He texted Clarke earlier in the week, casually, friendly, asking her who she was going to bid on.

**clarke**

> _miller. we're both non-hets in high school. we're bound to have something to talk about._

**bellamy**

> _bold of you to assume miller talks._

**clarke**

> _sounds like a perfect date to me_

**bellamy**

> _the things we do for charity_

Bellamy decides he's gonna make a show out of it, regardless, pulling off his shirt on stage to show off the abs he works pretty hard for. Octavia bids on him with a grimace, and Jasper, their self-proclaimed host, bends down to ask for her reaction to winning the infamous Bellamy Blake.

Since, "Every girl wants him, every guy wants to be him."

Ever the drama queen, she refuses to look at the stage, yelling into the microphone that he should, "Put on a shirt, bitch. I'm gonna throw up."

He laughs anyway, throwing the shirt at her face as he climbs down the stage to stand beside her, pulling her into his sweaty chest while Jasper urging everyone to cheer for him and the money he raised. While Octavia pushes him off with a string of curse words, he smiles over at Clarke, standing not too far away from them, who sends him a small wave.

Lexa is the last to be auctioned away. When she comes on the stage, she doesn't pose, just stands there with her arms crossed over her chest like she can't wait for it to be over and somehow still gets the loudest, most obnoxious cheers.

Octavia starts pulling on Clarke's arm, impatient. The blonde was outbid by Bryan earlier and hasn't tried bidding on anyone since. "I'm out of money. You have to try, Clarke,  _please._ "

Clarke sends her an incredulous look. "What? I don't  _want_ to bid on her."

"Please, Costia is going to bid on her and I know she likes her." Bellamy feels a little sorry for her when Octavia turns the full on puppy dog eyes on her.

Clarke sighs heavily, putting her hand up just as Jasper offers, "600?"

"Sold to—" Jasper raises his eyebrows, as his eyes flick between the three of them and towards Lexa whose face is hard to read. "The ex-girlfriend in red. Congrats!"

"I won?" Clarke repeats slowly, barely reacting as Octavia kisses her cheek sloppily and thanks her.

Clarke still looks dazed when Bellamy sends her a sympathetic smile, weaving his arms back through his shirt before covering her shoulder blade with his warm hand briefly. "Good luck."

He and Octavia go eat at his favorite dinner and spend the rest of the night at a mini golf course, being their best competitive selfs. She's trailing behind by a few points when she bends down to get her ball from behind the miniature windmill. When she leans in further, he's afraid she might get stuck, so he offers, "Let me do it, my arms are longer."

"No, I can do it," she argues, stubborn, stretching further until her fingers wrap around the ball. Her shirt rides up in the process, revealing what looks like a tattoo on her lower back.

"What's that?" He snaps, and he can hear her mumble a curse under her breath as she emerges with the ball in her hand, pulling her shirt back down as she gets back into her feet. It's too late. He's seen it now. The infinity sign with two initials weaved into the design; AK. It makes his blood boil.

"That's a tattoo?"

She bends down to pick up her golf club, snatching it up a little too roughly for it to be casual. Hissing, "It's  _nothing_."

"Don't tell me it's nothing," he barks, chucking his own club somewhere into the fake grass in front of them. He runs a hand through his air, gritting, "That's just like her. To get your branded with her name above your ass."

 _Alexandra Kane_. That's his baby sister.

"And that's just like you—assuming you know best," she yells, coming into his space, anger radiating off her in waves. People are starting to stare, but he doesn't care. "She doesn't even know about it! I just got it."

He deflates, just a little. "By yourself?"

Her jaw clenches. "Yeah."

" _Why_?"

"Because I love her," she spits, then stalks off, leaving him standing there like an idiot. His little sister is in love. And no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, it's still there. He's just pushing her away.

He finds her after a few minutes, giving her a moment by herself on purpose. She always needs to cool off first. He offers her the hot chocolate he got in the meantime, extra whipcream. "I come in peace, okay? I didn't mean to freak out on you." Reluctant, she takes it from him, taking a sip. Her top lip is covered in gooey whiteness, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. Softly he presses, because he can't help it, "But a  _tattoo,_ O?"

She grabs his arm with her free hand, stretches it out, pointedly looking at the great depiction of uranus on his forearm. "And you're not even dating Raven anymore."

He winches. "To be fair, we never were.'

"So that's better?" She argues, and she's right. Then her shoulders slouch as she leans forward on her knees with her elbows. She looks at him, light eyes pained. "You hold me to such a high standard, Bellamy, and it's not fair."

"That's because I love you," he insists, moving her long, sleek brown hair over her shoulder so he can take a better look at her. He cups her chin with his thumb and forefinger briefly, the small dip they both share despite genetics. "You're my sister. I want to protect you, from getting hurt, or doing something you'll regret later."

She rolls her bottom lip over her top one completely. "You can't protect me from everything."

"I know," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Quietly, he gives in, "Can I see it again?"

She nods, putting the hot chocolate down beside her before shifting so her back is towards him. He lifts up her shirt gingerly, running his finger over it. Maybe half hoping it comes off. It's pretty, well done. Checking, just to be sure, he asks, "She had nothing to do with this?"

"No, I told you. She doesn't know," Octavia confirms, pulling her shirt back down before twisting back into her original position. She groans, leaning her temple against his shoulder. " _Ugh._  What am I going to do, Bell? I'm literally obsessed with her. I hate being away from her, I think about her  _constantly_." Bellamy snickers until she cuts him off with a glare, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. "We were rehearsing a scene for drama club yesterday and I forgot all my lines, just because I zoned out on her thinking about how silky her hair was." He offers her a small tight lipped smile, because he does understand, even if he doesn't want to. Octavia sighs, shaking her head lightly, "Maybe were not gonna be together forever, but right now I'm in love for the first time in my life. And if I look at this tattoo 20 years from now, and it reminds me how I feel today, I think I'll be okay with it."

Bellamy grins, knocking his knee into hers. Maybe she did think this through more than he initially assumed. Genuinely, he wonders, "Why didn't you buy her at the auction? Why me?"

"Because you're still my brother, and when you're not acting like an ass your a halfway decent person to hang out with." She raises her eyebrows, eyes softening. "And you make me feel safe. Even when I feel like a mess right now."

"You're not a mess," he teases, slinging his arm around her shoulder. "You're just in love."

Octavia returns his smile, then it fades, just a little. "I'm not sure she is."

He's pretty certain Lexa is, but he hates seeing her this way anyway. He rises to his feet suddenly, sticking out his hand. "Let's go find out."

He texted Clarke earlier and she said she was ' _having an 'ok' time and not constantly feeling like killing herself at least_ ' and they ended up at Lexa's beach house to hang out. So he drives them over there, stopping in front of the house.

Bellamy takes the key out of the ignition, looks up at the house, the lights on in one of the rooms downstairs. "I'll always be here for you, you know that right? No matter what happens with her."

"I know," she whines, poking his thigh. Then she looks at the clock above his radio. "It's midnight."

"Right," he grimaces, and then before she knows it, palms her face to pull her closer, making sure she can't escape as he presses a loud, smacking kiss to her temple. She pushes him off, corners of her lips turned up slightly as she makes a show of wiping her temple with her sleeve. "You're disgusting. Come on."

They walk up to the porch, the door just opening as Clarke passes the threshold, laughing at something Lexa is saying. When she turns to the front completely, she's faced with Octavia, eyebrows arched as she prods, "Did you two kiss?"

As Lexa says, "Of course not," simultaneously Clarke says, "Hard pass."

"It's  _midnight_ ," Octavia presses, petulantly, arms crossed over her chest like anyone is actually going to reprimand them. "Those are the rules."

Clarke's forehead creases as she looks from Octavia to her ex-girlfriend. "You're serious?"

She doesn't budge. "If I had to kiss my brother, so do you two."

"No one asked you to do that," Clarke counters, but Lexa, knowing his sister a whole of a lot better, is already saying, "Fine, let's just get this over with."

"Funny," Clarke claims, dry. "That's what I used to say before we had sex."

Lexa narrows her eyes at her, then leans in. They peck lips, quickly. For which Bellamy is maybe the most thankful out of all four. Even if Clarke and him are decidedly  _friends_  now, it would still kill him to see her making out with someone else.

"Great," Octavia concludes excitedly, obviously pleased at the lack of passion. Then announces, "It's Friday, so I'm sleeping over."

Knowing he can't argue, considering their mom has another nightshift and he's in charge and probably owes her after their multiple fights over the past few weeks, he just sighs, gaze flicking over to Clarke's. She's already looking at him, biting down on her lip. He offers her a smile. "You want a ride home?"

She smiles, soft. "That'd be great, thanks."

As they make their way back down the steps in front of Lexa's beach house, he looks over his shoulder, to ask her, half-jokingly, "On a scale from one to Constantinople on May 29th 1453, how bad was your night?"

"Nerd," she laughs as they reach his truck, climbing in before he does the same on the other side. As she fastens her seatbelt, she gives a genuine answer to his question. "It wasn't too bad actually. it was kind of nice. We talked, and got some closure."

"Good," he says, and finds he doesn't have to force himself. He's happy when she is. "I'm glad."

"I'm proud of her," Clarke admits, brushing her hair behind her ear as he pulls out of the driveway. Her eyes dart over to his face, careful. "For dealing with her parents. And turning into the girl I always knew she could be. Octavia is good for her."

He hums in agreement, fumbling with the radio until he finds a song he likes.  _Drowning you, make my heart like the rain, surround me._

Clarke perks up, turning it up slightly. "This was playing on the radio the day you drove me home for the first time."

"You remember that?" He asks, surprised, daring to glance over at her for a moment.

Her voice gets impossibly soft, wringing her hands together in her lap. "I never tried to forget. Bellamy."

It's all a little too reminiscent of ' _what if don't wanna forget_ ', of her warm mouth pressing against his on the school parking lot, of her leaving him when he told her he loved her, his knuckles still stinging at the memory.

He glances over at her again, but her face is unreadable. Choosing a safer route, one that won't end up with his heart broken again, he asks her about her history assignment. She lets out a sigh that he's sure is relief, and the rest of the car ride over to Mount Weather is filled with idle chit-chat about school and shared friends.

"Night," she says, smiling as he comes to a stop in front of her familiar red door. She pushes open the door slightly, causing his interior lamp to spring on, highlighting her golden hair and bare face. She's so beautiful it almost hurts.

He musters together a believable grin as he represses the urge to reach out and run his thumb over her pink lips, press his mouth against hers, instead echoing, "Night."

She lingers by his door for a second longer, then nods,  _and it does hurt_ , closing it as she hurries up the steps of her porch. She waves at him one more time from the door, trying to find her keys in the pocket of her jacket.

This friend thing might actually not be that bad.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and as he waves off Clarke as she disappears inside, he pulls it from his jacket.

**raven**

> _can u meet me at the ark? i have to talk to u_

He frowns at his phone, checking the time. It's almost 1 o'clock.

**bellamy**

> _right now?_

**raven**

> _yeah, it's important_

Figuring Raven isn't one for dramatics usually, he sends her a quick reply he'll be there in fifteen before pulling away from Clarke's house. Once he parks his car at the familiar location, completely abandoned at this hour of the night, he finds her in the back off the rec field.

"Hi," he says, careful, closing the distance between him. He's kind of worried now. What is she doing her by herself so late at night? It's not like her at all. "Are you okay?"

She maneuvers herself off the picnic table she's perched on, stepping into the bright lights from the lamppost on either side of the field. Her eyes are rimmed red, her normally sleek hair pulled up in a much messier ponytail, sleeves pulled all the way up to her fingers. She inhales sharply, and Bellamy's heart actually stops in his chest, as she stammers, "I think I'm pregnant."


End file.
